


And the Fall to Doom a Long Way Away

by Skarabrae_stone



Series: And the Fall to Doom a Long Way Away [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Female Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Trans Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-10 15:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarabrae_stone/pseuds/Skarabrae_stone
Summary: It’s been ten years since Becky Barnes died. It’s been six months since Steve fought the Winter Soldier in D.C. When the Winter Soldier shows up at Steve’s apartment to assassinate him, he offers her ice cream, instead.





	1. The Fall of a Sparrow

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this fic:  
> James Buchanan Barnes is female, hence Rebecca Jean Barnes.  
> Becky and Steve grew up in the 80s and 90s, and enlisted (or tried to enlist, in Steve's case) in the army after the terrorist attack of September 11th, 2001. Neither of them got frozen at any point, but Becky was presumed dead for about ten years.
> 
> Thanks to Alex and Lauren for beta-ing!
> 
> Content warnings: Threats of violence, actual violence, memories of violence. One instance of homophobic language. Some other grossness. Further details in the end notes.
> 
> Fan art [here](https://captaintoomanybattles.tumblr.com/image/177554766377)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: violence, threats of violence, bodily trauma, one instance of homophobic language.

_" And sin, young man, is when you treat people like things." --_ Carpe Jugulum _, by Terry Pratchett._

  
  
She stalks into the apartment with gun drawn, already checking exits and potential traps.

There are four windows, very little furniture, and no pitfalls that she can see.

The Target is standing near the sink, a cup of tea in his hand. His eyes widen a little as she enters the room, and then…

He _smiles._

“Hi, Becky. It’s been awhile.”

She freezes, stares, the gun trained on his chest, and her pulse beats rapid, frantic, in her throat. _Becky._

It is not her name—she has no name, she is a machine, and machines do not have names—but it curls around her, possesses her, and some deep, hidden part of her uncoils and rises and yearns toward it, unstoppable as blood flow.

“Why,” she says, and stops; her voice is hoarse, rusty with disuse. She clears her throat, and tries again. “Why are you calling me this?”

His smile disappears, but there’s no trace of fear in his face. His voice is laden with sympathy, with warmth. “It’s your name, love,” he says gently. “Rebecca Jean Barnes.”

“It is not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“ _No._ ” She glares at him, fierce, uncertainty and sudden want roiling in her belly. The name is trying to claim her, carving itself into her skin like a tattoo. “I’m the Soldier. I don’t have a name.”

“Becky…”

“No,” she repeats, and resights on the gun, and then realizes. “You… we’ve met before.”

“Yes.”

“When?” _And why aren’t you dead already?_

He takes a breath, shoulders hunching a little, and he’s still not scared, but… tired, maybe. Or sad. She is not good with emotions. In her job, it’s seldom necessary. “We’re friends, Becky,” he says softly. “Or were. Years ago.” He hesitates, then takes a slow step forward, hands up in token of peace—as if he could harm her—and meets her eyes. His are blue, and impossibly sad. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You knew I was coming?” she asks, and feels her pulse speed even more. She glances behind her, alert for any sign of attackers, of a trap. “How?”

He shrugs. “You’re my best friend. Your bosses hate me. It was only a matter of time.”

“I’m going to kill you,” she informs him, and wonders why she hasn’t done it already.

He shrugs, philosophical. “Oh, well.”

“’Oh, well’?” she repeats, flabbergasted and—if she’s honest with herself—a little annoyed. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What else can I say?”

She’s flummoxed, here; there is literally nothing he can say that will change her course. Her memory may be more blank than anything else, but enough repetition will leave an impression on anyone’s mind, and she knows how this is supposed to go. “You’re supposed to ask me not to kill you,” she ventures. “To have mercy.”

“And would you? If I asked?”

She doesn’t have to think about this one. “No.”

It’s happened before—men, women, children, and always she did her job with cool efficiency, with a minimum of fuss. She has no idea how many rooms and forests and alleyways she’s walked out of, leaving nothing behind but corpses and blood.

“Well, then,” he says, like he’s winning an argument, like he isn’t talking himself toward his own death. “There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.”

This makes no sense, but it echoes in her mind, in her memory, slotting into place in her brain like there’s a space made for it there. It feels… familiar. “What are you talking about?” She steps forward, moving the gun to point between his eyes. “What sparrow?”

He smiles a little, and there’s _fondness_ in his gaze that she doesn’t understand. “If it be now, it’s not to come,” he says, and she realizes he’s quoting something. “If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet… it will come. The readiness is all.”

“I don’t—” her breath is coming rapidly, now, and her mind is whirling and she’s feeling things she ought not to feel. She wonders if this is some kind of program or mind-trick, if she has been trapped after all. “I don’t understand.”

“It means,” he says quietly, “that we’re all going to die eventually, and if—for me, it’s tonight, by your hand, then… that’s how it is. Of course, I’d rather not,” he adds casually. “I’d rather you put the gun down and come have a cup of tea with me. Or coffee, if you want. But… Becky, I told you I was willing to die for you, once. The offer still stands.”

She stares at him for a long moment, and the gun lowers without her quite willing it to.

His smile returns—kind and hopeful and generous, as though this is the best gift he could have asked for.

“I’ve got ice cream,” he says.

She should just shoot, she’s supposed to shoot, she _needs_ to shoot, but again something deep inside her overrides her programming, and she says, “I’ve never tried it.”

“But—never mind. You don’t remember. Obviously. Um.” He rubs a hand through his short blonde hair, looking a little lost. “Okay, well, I got a bunch of different flavors, here, so… uh… you can just pick—I’m going to open the freezer, okay?”

She nods, and he goes to the fridge, opens the freezer door.

“Chocolate, mint-chocolate-chip, black raspberry, and peanut-butter fudge swirl.” He looks at her. “Any of those sound good to you?”

_A memory._ A fragment, flashing briefly in her mind and gone again. The hint of something sweet and cool on her tongue, a sharp tang in her nostrils, a feeling that all was right with the world.

“Is there,” she starts, and stops, frowning. _This is stupid._

“Yes,” he prompts.

“Is there… is there one… a flavor, that’s… it’s green. And it tastes cool, and there are… dark bits, and those are warm. Rich. Like…” She struggles, because there’s nothing in her present life to compare it to, and she doesn’t quite know what she’s even trying to describe, because it’s only a ghost of something on her tongue—maybe a dream, maybe something she heard once from someone else. There’s very little in her mind that she can call her own, these days.

“Something nice,” she finishes, lamely.

The Target— _Steve_ , the other part of her supplies—nods, like she’s making any kind of sense.

“I think you mean the mint chocolate-chip,” he says. “That used to be your favorite.”

“I don’t—you don’t _know_ me,” she snaps, frustrated, but the Target just shakes his head.

“You do,” he insists. “You just forgot, that’s all. Anyway, I’m gonna make us sundaes. Brownies, whipped cream, the works. You alright with that?”

She feels trapped, itchy, like she doesn’t fit inside her own skin anymore. But the memory of that green coolness on her tongue is suddenly more powerful than all her instincts, all her programming, so she stands there and watches.

The Target scoops the ice cream into two large bowls, keeping his movements slow and obvious, as though he’s worried he’ll startle her.

She paces around the small room, watching him, the gun still trained on him, and she thinks, _I could just shoot him and then eat the ice cream_ , but she doesn’t.

She doesn’t, she just watches him, watches as he adds an indecent amount of whipped cream to each bowl.

“Why are you doing this?”

He shrugs, places a cherry atop the whipped cream— _a goddamn cherry on top,_ says the voice in her head, _of course he would_ —and sets the jar back down, carefully, on the counter.

“You’re my friend. Besides, the fact that you don’t know what _ice cream_ is is a goddamn disgrace.”

“I know what it _is_ ,” she says. “I just haven’t eaten it.”

“A disgrace,” he repeats, picking up the bowls. Then he hesitates. “Can I… can I give this to you?”

She points at the coffee table with her chin, the gun still steady in her hands. “Put it there.”

“Okay.” He walks to the table carefully, slowly, and sets down the sundae gently, like a bomb that might go off. Then he backs away, toward the armchair, with his own bowl, and sits.

“There you go. Dig in.”

It’s a trap; it must be. And yet… She checks her exits again, looks for hidden snares, but she swept this place twice today while he was out, and she knows it’s clean. And the memory of green on her tongue is so strong, so inviting…

Squaring her shoulders, she stalks to the table, sets her gun on the couch, and sits down, taking the bowl in her hands.

The first bite is… bliss.

Cool green— _mint_ —and the soft dark bite of chocolate, the cold, solid texture of the ice cream mixed with the light, airy whipped cream, and then the crumbling, chocolate mess that is the brownie. She lets herself revel in it, cold cream and hot fudge sauce, the sweet of the dessert itself contrasting with the bright red sour of the cherry, the earthy crunch of walnuts.

She’s never tasted anything so good in her life.

On the third bite, it occurs to her that this could be poisoned.

By the time she’s swallowed, she’s decided she doesn’t really care.

On the fifth bite, she glances up at the Target, making sure he hasn’t moved, that he hasn’t taken advantage of her distraction. He’s eating too, slowly, savoring it just like she is; he catches her watching him and smiles, gentle and inexplicably happy, showing white teeth. A drip of ice cream lands on his wrist, and he ducks his head to lick it off, twisting his arm at an awkward angle to get at it. And darting across the surface of her mind, like the after-image in the wake of an explosion, she remembers:

_A girl, sitting on a green bench: Long blonde hair, the tips dyed blue, and a pair of ratty overalls. She smiles, showing the braces on her teeth, and dips her head to lick at a drip of ice cream on her wrist, twisting her arm to get at it._

_“There are napkins for that,” she says._

_The other girl—no. Not a girl, but a boy, a boy with long hair and a thin face, baggy overalls, skinny arms._

_The boy laughs. “Hey, I paid two whole dollars for this. I’m not gonna let it go to waste.”_

 

She blinks, looks at the man in front of her, and sees:

If you took a skinny boy, and stretched him out, laid on muscle—

If you took a boy with long blonde hair, and cut it short, and took off his braces…

 

“Did you,” she starts, and stops, because it’s stupid, this is _stupid_ , she’s supposed to kill him and she’s fantasizing about boys on green benches in a summertime that probably didn’t even _happen—_

“Did I what?” he prompts, gentle, like she’s a skittish horse he’s trying to tame.

She swallows, thinks, _You’re the SOLDIER, you can do this,_ and starts again. “Did you… look—different, a long—a long time ago.”

“Different,” he repeats, slowly. “Different how?”

“Did you,” she probes at the memory, tries to grasp it firmly, like a thistle that will sink its barbs into her, never let go. “Did you have long hair, and… um…”

The Soldier does not get embarrassed. The Soldier doesn’t stammer, doesn’t beat around the bush. The Soldier gets straight to the point.

“Did you used to have—a—a chest? Like—” She gestures at her own chest, invisible under the bulky protective clothing.

Steve Rogers— _the Target_ —nods, looking surprised and a little pleased. “Yeah, I did. Everyone—people thought I was a girl, way back when.”

“But you… you don’t have them… now.”

He shakes his head. “I had surgery.” And then he sets down his bowl and lifts his shirt up, so she can see the two scars—neat, horizontal lines—swooping just under his pecs.

It takes her a moment to get her bearings, because Steve—the Target—is _muscular_ , and yeah, she knew that already, but his shirt was loose before and—and it’s just a lot to take in, at the moment, especially when a voice at the back of her head is screaming just to _look_ , just to _touch_ , and she just… aches with it, a little.

She pulls her attention back, and looks at the scars, and back up at him. “But the serum,” she says. “You can’t—you can’t scar.”

She knows this. She _knows_ , because it’s the same damn serum, and she doesn’t have a mark on her, not from knife blades or bullets or shrapnel or whatever else she’s encountered. She heals too quickly, skin and bone knitting back together within minutes, hours, a day or two at most.

“Not anymore, no,” he says. “But I got the surgery before the serum—the hormones, too. I don’t think I could have transitioned, after.”

“You transitioned, from—” She stops, confused, because she’s got this image in her head—a kid with long blonde hair and skinny shoulders, breasts and hips and a pink T-shirt—but she knows, she _knows_ that he wasn’t a girl, was never a girl.

“Testosterone,” he says, and his tone is easy, but his shoulders have tensed, just a little; apparently this conversation is more worrisome to him than having a super-assassin pointing a gun at him. “Made my voice deeper, helped me put on a bit of muscle.”

“That’s why they bullied you,” she says, automatic, and he winces, running a hand through his short hair.

“Yeah.”

She shouldn’t know this—doesn’t know _how_ she knows this—just like she doesn’t know how she connected him with that skinny kid in her head. The whole thing is making her incredibly confused, so she eats ice cream instead, trying to concentrate on the fact that he is her _target_ , she’s supposed to _kill him_ , and when she’s finished with her ice cream she will flick the safety off her gun and…

Steve—the Target—pokes at his ice cream with his spoon and says, a little too casually, “You figured out what my name should be, you know.”

She doesn’t—can’t—say anything, just looks at him. He smiles, a little crookedly.

“It’s true. I was—I wanted to change, but I didn’t really know what to do. How far I should go. And you just sort of rolled your eyes and said, ‘Just do the simple thing. Steph—Steve. Easy for everyone.’ And you were right.”

“There was a green bench,” she says, the Soldier’s control failing her again. “Ice cream.”

He nods, looking half a world away. “Paizano’s. They had the best ice cream. We always went there in the summer.”

“You had—overalls. And—and blue hair.”

“I remember those,” he says. “I liked them ‘cause they were so baggy. I didn’t have a binder yet, so I wore all these awful baggy things…”

“And long hair.”

“Yeah. I got that cut right after you figured out my name.” His smile turns wistful. “I would have liked to keep it—I liked having long hair. But, you know, they wouldn’t have believed me, I don’t think. You got to out-masculine everyone else if you start out the way I did.”

“I didn’t,” she says sharply. “I—I didn’t—I didn’t figure out your name, I didn’t…”

“Yeah, you did.” His eyes are so very blue, painfully earnest. She wonders if he even knows how to lie. “You were my best friend, Becky. The first person I came out to. And you know what you said?”

She doesn’t say anything, just waits, the world spinning around her.

“You said, ‘Of course you’re a boy. You’re the best boy I’ve ever met.’” He looks up at her, meets her eyes. “You were always there for me, right from the beginning. When I thought I’d lost you… I didn’t know what to do with myself. I—”

“That’s not me,” she says harshly. “You’ve got—you’re mixed up, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It _is_ you. Rebecca Jean Barnes.” His voice is gentle, but there’s a determined jut to his jaw that she somehow recognizes. “Born March 10th, 1983. I _know_ you, Becky. And you know me. I know you do.”

She shoots to her feet, the gun back in her hands, the empty ice cream bowl crashing to the floor in an explosion of shattered glass.

“You DON’T! I don’t! I’m not—”

“Then kill me!” He’s on his feet, too, empty palms high in the air, and his face is all twisted like she’s already shot him. “If you don’t know me, then why don’t you go ahead and shoot like you’re supposed to?”

She shoots.

Two rounds, in quick succession, head, chest.

Bang, bang.

The Target doesn’t even flinch, standing braced for the impact. In the moment of silence after she fires, he looks down at himself, then at the holes in the wall behind him, surprised.

“You missed.”

“I don’t _miss_ ,” she says scathingly, and then, “I need—to know. About Rebecca Barnes. Everything.”

“Okay,” he says, and he’s still staring at her, like he can’t quite believe what just happened. In fairness, she can’t quite believe it, either. “Okay, but… not here. The shots. I’ve got sound-proofing, but… it’s safer if we go—somewhere else.”

“You’ve got someplace?”

A quick, crooked smile. “Yeah. In case it all goes south. Can I—will you let me lead?”

She thinks about it for half a second, then pulls a pair of handcuffs from her pack. “Only if you put these on.”

“Okay,” he agrees, and puts his hands out.

She cuffs Captain America and pockets his wallet and keys, glancing around for anything else they might need—or that might present a danger.

“I’ve got a bag in my room,” he says. “Might be useful.”

“Show me.”

He leads the way into the bedroom, and she keeps her gun pointed at his broad back, mostly for appearances’ sake. It’s fairly obvious at this point that he’s not going to fight her.

The room is as bare as the rest of the apartment, just a bed with grey sheets, a desk with a lamp and a laptop on it, and a wardrobe. The bag is a black Nike duffle sitting at the foot of his bed; she goes through it quickly to make sure he doesn’t have any surprises hiding in there. Sweatpants, T-shirt, socks and underwear, a small first aid kit, a bottle of water and some candy bars—nothing that shouldn’t be there, and yet… she looks up at him, frowning.

“Were you _planning_ to run away?”

He shrugs. “Like I said, I thought you’d probably come for me at some point.”

This is patently idiotic, so she ignores it, dumping his stuff back in the bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

She glances at his laptop, wondering if it’s worth the risk to take it—there could be government files on there, which would be useful, but…

“I’m pretty sure they put trackers on it,” he says, following her gaze. “Anyway, I’ve got everything important stored someplace else. Laptops are easy to steal.”

This is the first sensible thing he’s said since she got here, so she decides to go with it. “Fine. I… have to make a call.”

“HYDRA?” he asks.

“Shut up.” She pulls out her com and switches it on.

“Code 7843. Soldier.”

“Code 864,” a voice immediately responds. “What is your status?”

She takes a deep breath. “The Target has not returned to his apartment. He might have had warning and gone to ground.”

“Our surveillance shows him entering the building at 1800 hours.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a pause, then the operative on the other end says, “Very well. What do you suggest?”

“Permission to track him?”  
“Permission granted. What’s your time-frame?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“Confirmed. You will report on your mission status in twenty-four hours or less.”

“Roger. Signing off.”

“Roger. Over.”

She shuts the thing off, then looks up to see Rogers staring at her in… could that possibly be admiration on his face?”

“Wow,” he says, and yes, it’s definitely admiration. “You’ve got this skullduggery thing down to a science, don’t you?”

She gives him a blank stare. “Enough talking. Let’s move out.”

“Okay,” he says, sounding amused. “There are cameras on the stairwell, though.”

“I took them out at 1300 hours today.”

“Oh. Okay, then. Well, uh… follow me, then, I guess.”

He leads the way out of the apartment, down the stairs to a shitty basement that’s mostly full of broken furniture, old suitcases, and other detritus from the building’s residents. There’s a couple of pallets leaning up against the back wall, which he pulls aside, revealing a thin line marking a two-foot square.

“You’ve gotta stick a crowbar or something in the crack,” he starts, but she’s already prying at it with her metal fingers, lifting the square easily from the surrounding concrete to show a tunnel leading into the darkness.

“You’re paranoid,” she can’t help saying, and he grins at her, bending to pick up the bag again.

“Says the assassin who just broke into my apartment. I think I’m justified.”

The tunnel is about thirty feet long, ending at a grate that’s squeezed in between a concrete wall and a dumpster. She emerges first, peering around carefully to make certain they haven’t been seen before taking the bag from Steve as he levers himself out.

The handcuffs haven’t really slowed him down much; he clears the opening with minimal struggle, and slides the grate back into place with his foot.

“There’s a parking garage here,” he murmurs to her. “I’ve got a car stowed, just in case.”

“Lead the way.”

She probably shouldn’t be surprised when he simply jumps, catching hold of a metal guard rail about four feet above their heads, and swings himself over. In a moment, his head pops back over the railing.

“All clear.”

“It better be,” she mutters, and slings his bag over her back before copying his jump.

Thirty seconds later, she’s seated at the wheel of a baby-blue Honda Civic, safe behind tinted glass in the dimly-lit garage.

It’s nearly midnight now, but many of the streets are still crowded; she drives on the highway, gets off, gets back on somewhere else, and switches directions a few more times.

By one in the morning, she decides they’ve driven in circles long enough, and heads to the location Steve’s told her about, an abandoned warehouse in the depths of the Bronx.

“Nice place you got here,” she deadpans, and he just grins at her, sweeping the contents of the glove box into his bag.

“Well, if I’d known you were coming, I would’ve cleaned up.” He pulls the strap of the bag over his neck with his cuffed hands, and opens the door. “Coming?”

She stiffens, the warm familiarity of a moment ago disappearing—he is her Target, she is the Asset—and says coldly, “No false moves, Rogers.”

The smile wipes off his face like rain from a windshield, and he hunches his shoulders a little, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “It’s okay, Becky,” he says quietly. “I’m not pulling anything.”

She nods once, tensely, and lets him lead the way to a metal door, watching as he dials the combination on the heavy-duty lock that secures it: 031083, and her eyes narrow.

“You used—”

“Your birthday,” he says, “Yeah,” and opens the door. “You want me to go first?”

She glances around, checking for the hundredth time that there’s no one there, they’re not being watched—and nods. “Go in.”

The inside is just as shitty as the outside suggests—a bare, basement room lit by a single florescent strip along the ceiling. There’s an army cot with a sleeping bag on it, a footlocker, a metal chair, and a sink, with another door in the wall on her right. She locks the outer door carefully, noting that it’s been reinforced from the inside, with a metal bar and everything—like Steve—Rogers—thought he might need to barricade himself in.

_It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you_ , and yeah, she gets that.

Steve, meanwhile, is standing in the middle of the room, bag at his feet, watching her.

“What do you want?” he asks. She doesn’t think anyone’s ever asked her that before—she’s not supposed to _have_ wants, those are for other people.

But she narrows the question down to the immediate, and says, “Sit in that chair.”

“Okay,” he says, and he does.

He sits there, and makes no protest when she cuffs him to it, moving his arms obligingly so she can fasten his wrists to the chair legs. It’s possibly the most unnerving thing she’s ever experienced, how unafraid he is, how much he trusts her.

It’s frightening.

She breathes out a big breath, standing over him like he’ll be intimidated by that, and he tilts his head and watches her with those clear blue eyes.

“Tell me,” she says, and tries to keep her voice harsh, steady. “Tell me about Rebecca Barnes.”

“Okay,” he says immediately. “Okay. Becky Barnes—you’re my—”

“Don’t—don’t do that,” she says.

“Do…”

“Call me that. Tell me about—her. In third person. Not me. Her.”

He draws a ragged breath, looking pained. “Oh—okay. I can do that. I can do that. Sure.” Another breath. He closes his eyes, opens them, and starts over. “Becky Barnes is—was—is—my best friend. Y—she was born in Brooklyn, same neighborhood as me. Y—her parents were Winie—Winifred—and George Barnes. Three little sisters, Emma, Rachel, and Bonnie. Emmy’s a hair-dresser—no, a _beautician_ , on Seventh Avenue. Rachel’s a doctor—she moved to LA. And Bonnie’s in college—SUNY New Paltz, for—archeology, I think. She—she’d be so proud of ‘em, Becky. They’re amazing, they—they’ve worked so hard, and Emma’s married…”

He goes on, telling her about siblings, parents and grandparents. He gets teary about Winifred Barnes’s death (car accident), takes a steely tone when he tells about George’s alcoholism and eventual abandonment of the family. He describes a New York that’s both alien and oddly familiar to her, full of life that she only ever saw distantly—not targets or obstacles, but people, living lives full of mundane triumphs and tragedies, affected by, yet far away from, the political figures she protected or assassinated as her handlers demanded.

This was the world Steve and Becky grew up in, negotiating gentrification and gender politics, the unemployment crisis and the Internet, computers and Cabbage Patch dolls, dingy apartments and denim jackets, protests and police brutality, hip-hop and housing prices. He talks about getting into fights in back alleys and gym class and the back of the bus, mouthing off to bullies, trying to defend other kids, and coming home with black eyes and split lips and bloody knuckles.

“You—she always said I didn’t know when to quit,” he says reminiscently. “But it was like having a shadow—Becky was always there, always had my back—I started fights, most of the time, but she usually finished them.”

He talks about himself, because, she thinks, he doesn’t quite know where Steve ends and Becky begins.

“I was always sick—allergic to everything, asthma, inhaler, heart condition, the whole bit. Immuno-compromised, they said.  I think I had bronchitis every year since I was born. I’m pretty sure—I don’t think they really expected me to live.” He bites his lip, looks up at her with a soft expression that cuts her to the bone. “Y—Becky was the only one who acted like I had a chance.”

Becky, she learned, was Steve’s hero growing up—tall and strong, a gifted gymnast and dancer. Steve went to all her competitions—when he wasn’t sick in bed, anyway—and drew dozens, hundreds of sketches of her from the stands. When they got older, they took karate together, mostly at Steve’s insistence, scraping together the money for weekly lessons through various odd jobs—babysitting and walking dogs, even venturing into the suburbs to mow lawns and weed gardens. Steve couldn’t do most of the physical stuff, but he was good with kids, and sometimes he set up an easel in Central Park and sold sketches, portraits and landscapes and caricatures.

When Becky’s father left, she got a job waitressing to help support the family, and Steve looked after her sisters so her mom could work.

“Even when I was flat on my back on the couch, I could at least keep an eye on them—make sure they did their homework, that kind of thing.”

And then September 11th happened—the Twin Towers fell, and the shock waves reverberated through their lives.

“We enlisted,” Steve says bitterly. “Of course we did—we were kids, idealists, we had no idea what we were doing—and of course Becky got in, but—they wanted people who were—you know—able-bodied. Not some skinny little asthmatic with a heart murmur. Well, and being trans probably didn’t help, either. That was back in the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell days, and I was—well, I was pretty damned obvious.”

He licks his lips, as though preparing for something difficult. “So. You went. I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself, I kept trying to enlist different places, under different names. And then this doctor, he took a liking to me, convinced them to take me on and give me the serum—and then he got shot, and… anyway. They had me doing TV, ‘to raise morale’, they said—and then they shipped me over to Afghanistan to do this idiot reality show. Nowhere near you—her, but at least it was—closer. Becky shipped out in—late 2002, it was. The 107th. And a few months later, there was a fight, and pretty much all of you—them—got captured, or killed. And I was doing a show in Kabul, and I heard about it, and… well. I had to find you.” He smiles crookedly. “I _had_ to go after y—Becky. I don’t think it was ever a choice, with us—we always went after each other.”

“But you didn’t find her,” she says. “She—died. Disappeared.”

“No, I found her,” says Steve. “All of them—well the ones who’d survived. HYDRA had a base in the Hindu Kush. They were—torturing them. Experimenting. They’d gotten Al Qaeda to give them prisoners—and they’d experimented on you—on Becky. We didn’t realize until later, that they’d given y—her the serum—it wasn’t quite so—obvious—as on me…” He sighs. “We figured it out, though. It wasn’t the same as mine, but… it was close enough. And by that time, we were pretty fed up with the U.S. government, but we were—we didn’t really have options, we’d signed the contract, and we knew Al Qaeda had to go down—and then S.H.I.E.L.D. stepped in, offered to take us on board. Part of a special—a sort of elite force, a little more… specialized than… um... the normal military. I ended up—I don’t know why the hell why, but they put me in charge.”

“And Barnes—”

“Becky was my right hand,” he says, and the way he says it, he could almost mean it literally. “Everything we did, everything we—it was always—her. And we had—Peggy, and Jim, and Gabe, and a bunch of others—we were—our unit was really close, had to be. And then…”

A look of pain crosses his face, and his hands move, straining against the cuffs for a moment before he seems to collect himself and settles again. His voice is a little hoarser when he continues.

“We’d got wind of a Hydra base, up in the mountains again—in Pakistan, this time. There was going to be a shipment, weapons—a tr—a train. And we, we went in, and there was a—a fight, on the train, and you…” He looks up at her, eyes unfocused, his face etched with grief—and she knows he’s seeing whatever happened, lost in his own personal tragedy. “I tried to reach you,” he says, voice breaking. “I tried—and I almost had—but you fell—I couldn’t—I’m so sorry, Becky,” and now there are tears in his eyes, and she can’t deal with this, can’t deal with all his _feelings_ , and _her_ feelings, and she wants to run away or maybe shoot him or—

“I tried,” he whispers, “but you fell, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t—I looked, afterward, after we cleared the place out, but—it was like—you just vanished, no body, no nothing. They all said—in the snow… it happens, it’s hard to find bodies up there. So I—I gave up, after a while. It seemed—there was no way you could survive a fall like that, everyone—and HYDRA was trying to smash New York again, I—God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“When?” she demands. “What year did—did she—die?”

“2005,” he says. “March 1st, 2005.” He takes a deep breath, and meets her eyes. “Exactly one year later, the Winter Soldier made her first assassination. Exactly one year.”

“It—that doesn’t—it doesn’t mean anything,” she says numbly. Her mind is all in a jumble. She doesn’t know what to believe—she doesn’t even remember that assassination, doesn’t remember what was happening in 2006. It could have been anyone. “I never… I don’t _know_ you.”

“But you do,” he says. “And I know you.”

“You don’t.”

“You’ve got my wallet, right? Take a look inside.”

She does, flips the thing open, and yes, there are pictures. The first one, over-colored in the way of photos from the 80s and 90s, is of two kids—maybe eight or nine—with their arms around each other. The skinny one whom she _knows_ is a boy, Steve, has blonde pigtails and terrible bangs that cover his entire forehead, and he’s wearing a striped shirt and red corduroys and a giant grin, and the girl… she feels as though she’s just received an electric shock, because the girl is familiar, too, though she doesn’t quite look the way she—yes, the way she remembers… Taller than Steve by a head, her dark hair in braids, she looks at the camera with total confidence, head tilted slightly to one side, and even at eight or nine or ten she looks ready to take on the world.

On the back of the photo, in neat penciled cursive, someone’s written, “Steve and Becky, 1st Day of School, 1993”.

The second photo is even worse, because it’s the same face—nearly—that she’s seen in the mirror any time she’s cared to look. The same dark blue, slightly hooded eyes, the full mouth and cleft chin… everything except the expression, which is one she’s never seen on her own face: a bright smile that seems to light her up from within, a cocky tilt to the head, a mischievous glint to the eyes.

She swallows hard, and looks at the back of this photo: the same handwriting simply says, “Becky Barnes, July 4th, 2004.”

“It’s not me,” she says, looking up. “I’m not—I’m the Asset, I’m the Soldier, I’m not—I’m not your _friend_ , I’m not—”

“You are my friend,” says Steve firmly. “And I’m yours. Becky.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Becky, come on—”

“STOP IT!” She crumples the photos in her fist, suddenly enraged. “You—don’t—I’m not—I’m not HER, I’m not your FRIEND!”

“You know me,” he says stubbornly. “You remember, at least a little—I know you do.”

She can’t deal with this, can’t deal with the emotions, the panic bubbling in her chest, and she deals with it the only way she can right now—by punching Steve Rogers in the face with her metal hand.

He makes a surprised noise, his head crashing against the concrete wall, and then she’s punching him, pummeling, fast and hard, and he just… _takes it_ , doesn’t make a sound after that first, doesn’t flinch, just braces himself, let’s her hit him.

She feels his nose crunch under her hands, and there’s blood and mucus running down his face, dripping from his mouth, one of his teeth broken off, and

_He gets to his feet slowly, blood and snot dripping down his face, and there’s blood on his teeth where his braces tore into his lips. He takes a couple deep breaths through his inhaler, and looks at her, bruises blooming around his eyes._

_“You didn’t have to. I was handling it.”_

_She slings her arm around his shoulders, casually, so they can both pretend she’s not holding him up. “Of course you were. It just looked like so much fun, I couldn’t help myself.”_

_“They called me a fag.”_

_“What a pair of dumbasses. You don’t even smoke.”_

_He wheezes a laugh, and leans into her, and she says, low and serious, “Steve, I’m always gonna have your back, you know that, right? All the way to hell and back.”_

_He meets her eyes, and God, his face is a mess—but he says, “Me too, Becky. I swear.”_

She’s frozen, staring at this familiar-unfamiliar face, and somewhere in her mind a voice is screaming:

_You HURT STEVE, you bastard, you bitch, you HURT HIM, you promised not to hurt him, you’re not supposed to—_

_He’s the Target, I’m supposed to kill him, I need to—_

_Don’t hurt Steve, you can’t hurt Steve, what if he has an attack, where’s his inhaler—_

_Mom’s gonna have a conniption—_

_What a mess—_

_He’s the Target—_

“Becky,” gasps Steve.

She stares at him, his bloody, bruised face and rapidly swelling eyes…

“Listen,” he says, “just… do what you have to do, all right? It’s okay, I… I got your back. All the way—all the way to hell and back.” His eyes close, and his voice breaks. “Whatever you have to do.”

She stumbles away from him, panting, and then her legs go out from under her and she crumples to the floor. Her mind is a jumble, and she can’t tell who she is or what’s happening to her—and she’s crying in huge, shuddering sobs, gasping for air, her whole body shaking, and she doesn’t understand, she can’t _d_ _eal_ with this…

There’s a creak and a crash, metal on concrete, and then Steve is there with the remains of the cuffs dangling loose from his hands.

“Hey,” he says, and sits down next to her. “Hey, Becky, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay. Come here.”

He puts his arms around her, and _God_ it’s been so long since anyone touched her, held her, treated her as anything but a machine, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

Steve is warm, and smells of cotton and clean sweat and blood, and when she puts her flesh hand on his chest she can feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart. He pulls her into his lap, warm, strong arms cradling her, and lays his cheek against the top of her head, and she can feel his blood dripping into her hair but she doesn’t care, because she’s s _afe._

It’s what’s been puzzling her all night, the thing that’s held her in thrall since she first stepped into his apartment. Because deeper than any memory, any training, is this instinctual knowledge: that Steve means safety.

It’s a long time later when Steve finally loosens his grip on her a little and says, “Becky, I got a favor to ask.”

He must feel her tense up, because he rubs her back and says, “Hey, no, nothing bad, don’t worry, I just… I was wondering if you could set my nose.”

She sits up. “What?”

“My nose,” he repeats. “I heal pretty quickly, and if it heals like this I’m gonna have trouble breathing.”

He’s right: his nose is all twisted now, his breath whistling in and out like it used to, when he still needed the inhaler. His face is a mass of bruises, and another memory surfaces.

“What’s black and blue and red all over?” she says aloud, and Steve’s mouth opens in a huge smile.

“Steve Rogers getting his sorry ass handed to him again,” he answers, and laughs. “God, I’d forgotten that one.”

She shakes her head, disoriented. “I don’t—I don’t know how I knew that.”

“It’s okay, Becky. It’ll come back to you.”

“I don’t have anything to set your nose with,” she says, rather than open that can of worms.

“I’ve got tampons here, you can use those.”

“ _Tampons_?”

“Hey, I did Scouts. Always be prepared. Anyway,” he says, “old habits die hard. You gonna let me up, or what?”

She realizes, with some embarrassment, that she’s still clinging to him, and slides off his lap. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

 “Thanks.” He pats her on the shoulder, and gets to his feet with a little groan, walking stiffly over to the sink to splash water on his face.

A few feet away, the remains of the chair are lying in a heap; it hits her that he could have gotten out of it anytime he wanted, that he _let_ her beat him… and she had already sort of figured that out, but now she suddenly realizes:

_He would let me kill him, if I wanted to. He’d let me do anything to him, and not fight back._

“To hell and back,” he’d said, and, “I’d die for you”—and he’d meant it. It terrifies her, the idea that she has so much power, that Steve Rogers, _C_ _aptain America_ , would throw away his life for her.

“Here they are,” he says, and she turns to see him waving the packet of tampons. He’s washed the blood off his face, but that only makes the bruises stand out more. “So… you think you can set it?”

“Yes,” she says, because she’s had to set her own nose more than once, splint her own broken bones, clean her own wounds—it’s knowledge rather than memory, something they’ve been careful not to wipe, just like shooting a gun. A necessary skill for the Soldier to have.

“Great.” He sits down on the floor with his back against the wall, and hands her the packet. “Ready when you are.”

She’s not ready, not really, but she takes a deep breath and feels around, figuring out where the break is, how everything should be lined up.

“This is going to hurt,” she warns.

He nods. “I know.”

“Okay.”

She places a finger on either side of his nose, and _pushes_ until everything seems to be lined up. Steve makes a little whimpering sound in the back of his throat and grabs her thigh, hard enough to bruise; it takes all her self-control not to punch him again.

“Hand me a tampon.”

He unwraps it with fumbling fingers and hands it to her, then grabs her thigh again when she shoves it up his nostril.

He’s panting now, teeth clenched, and she can see how much effort it’s taking him to hold still. She hates herself for hurting him, for breaking his nose in the first place, but there’s no help for it now, so…

“Next.”

It takes him even longer this time, because his hands are trembling, but he finally gets it out of its wrapper and she braces his head against the wall and slides the other tampon in; there’s a crunch and Steve sucks in a breath and scrabbles at the floor with his free hand, and then it’s over.

He remains still, breathing hard, for a few moments, before opening his eyes. His tone is weirdly nasal. “Thanks.”

“Any time.”

“I hope not.”

“Yeah,” she says, “Me too,” and is relieved to see him smile.

“So,” he says after a minute, “are you still going to kill me?”

“No.” She knows, now, that it’s impossible, but… “They’re going to punish me.”

“HYDRA?”

“My handlers.”

His face twists, like he’s got a bad taste in his mouth, but he says, “They can’t punish you if you don’t go back.”

She stares at him. “But—I have to go back.”

“Why?”

“I just—do. It’s not a _choice_ ,” she snaps. “I just—that’s how it works. I go back. I always go back, even…”

His voice is soft. “Even what?”

“I… tried,” she says, shuddering, remembering; the punishment they’d inflicted that time is engraved so deeply in her bones that she doesn’t think she could ever forget. “They caught me. It was… it was bad. Really bad.”

“I won’t let them,” says Steve. “I won’t let them hurt you, not while there’s a breath in my body—”

“There won’t be,” she says tiredly. “Not if they find you. They’ll _kill_ you, they’ll make _me_ kill you, or—or they’ll take you and—and make you like me.”

“I won’t let them,” he says again, and he’s got that look on his face again, like he’d turn the entire world upside-down if that’s what it took to get what he wants. “Becky, please, don’t go back to them. I’ve got friends, I’ve got hiding places, I can help—”

She jerks away from him, panic flooding her again. “No! You can’t—you can’t tell them! No one else—no—you don’t know—you can’t trust—”

“Fine,” he says quickly. “Fine, I won’t tell anyone else, but… Becky, you c _an’t_ go back to HYDRA, don’t you see? They’ll mess your head around again, they’ll make you do… I mean, do you _w_ _ant_ to be an assassin? Kill innocent people? Families?”

“I—wanting’s got nothing to do with it! I didn’t have a choice, I _have no choice_!” she shouts; she’s standing, holding her gun again, and Steve looks at her so kindly that she wants to die.

“I know,” he says. “But you… you have a choice _now_ , Becky. You can quit. You can get out. I’ll help you.”

She wants, she wants so much to believe him, but she knows there’s no escaping them: they’ll put her in the Chair, they’ll take away the little bit of her mind she’s got left, they’ll….

“Put it this way,” says Steve softly. “If you come with me now, you’ve got a chance. Go back to them… you’ve no chance at all. I know you’re not used to having a choice,” he adds. “But… you’ve got one now.”

She stares at him for a long, agonized moment.

_The Asset must complete the mission. The Soldier must return to base._

_They’ll kill Steve._

_The Soldier must make her report._

_But they’ll kill Steve, or worse… they’ll take him, they’ll turn him into another killing machine._

In the end, it’s not the prospect of pain or punishment, or even being forced to kill again, that decides her—it’s the fact that they will hurt Steve, and that is not something she can allow to happen.

“All—all right,” she says at last. “But you have to promise…”

“What?”

“If they find me, if they come after me— you’ve got to save yourself, alright? Promise me you’ll save yourself. And—and if they do take me—you’ll have to kill me, you’ll have to take me down.”

“I can’t, Becky.” He looks agonized. “I can’t just… I can’t do that.”

“If you come after me,” she says fiercely, “they’ll take you too, they’ll take your mind—they’ll have both of us.”

“Not if I—”

“ _Promise me!_ ”

And finally, with an effort, he says, “I promise—I’ll promise not to let them take me, but Becky, I can’t—I can’t promise not to try—to rescue you, if you need help. And I _won’t_ kill you. I can’t.”

“Steve. I’m their Asset, do you understand?” She takes a step closer, holstering her gun so she can grab his shoulders. “I am _dangerous_ , and I _can’t_ —I can barely control—I don’t even know what my mind _is_ —and I _will not risk_ hurting you again. So if you can’t promise to—to take me down, if you have to, then—then I can’t stay, I can’t stay with you. I _c_ _an’t._ ”

Steve looks at her with wide, scared blue eyes—scared of losing her, she realizes, not scared of _her_ —and says in a rough voice that sounds utterly unlike himself, “All right. All—all right. I… I promise.”

She lets go of him, breathing a sigh of relief. “Okay, then. Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes, and scrubs a hand through his hair. “We’d better get out of here. Let’s… I’ve got changes of clothes, we can… look a little—less like ourselves….”

“Get rid of the trackers,” she agrees, and he stills, looking at her.

“Of course,” he says bitterly. “Of course they’ve planted trackers on you. I should have thought—”

“It’s alright.” It’s never bothered her before, but now she feels itchy, contaminated. “Let’s just get them off.”

“I’ve got a thing that could help, probably,” he offers. “A—it’s like a scanner, for electronics. Tony invented it, so it probably works.”

“Tony—”

“Tony Stark. Stark Industries.”

“Oh.” She thinks for a moment. “I’ve used Stark equipment before. It worked—well.”

“Pierce,” he mutters irritably, then adds, “Hang on, I’ll get it.”

The scanner looks a bit like a fancy pen—silver, with a small blue button at the end. When Steve pushes the button, a blue light appears, sweeping over her body in broad strokes. After a moment, a red dot appears on her arm, blinking, and a tinny, robotic voice emanates from the device.

“Self-destruct detected. Proceed with caution.”

“Those _fuckers_ ,” says Steve.

She shrugs. “They couldn’t afford to let me be acquired by someone else.”

“Acquired,” he spits like it’s a bad word, then shakes his head. “You trust me to get it out for you?”

“I don’t _trust_ anyone,” she responds automatically, but she holds her arm out just the same, and tries not to flinch when he uses pliers and a screw-driver from the footlocker to pry open one of the plates on her arm. They both breathe out in relief when he removes the tiny metal button and its attached wires.

“Right,” he says when he’s finished, and his voice is just the tiniest bit shaky. “Let’s see what else those bastards have hidden on you.”

 

With the trackers removed from her uniform, guns, and arm, plus the one implanted just under the skin of her right shoulder (“Those _fuckers_ ,” says Steve), they go about changing into the clothes Steve keeps in the locker.

She chooses a pair of baggy camo pants, which look like they belong in the 2000s, a long-sleeved black shirt with a loose purple T-shirt over it, a jean jacket, and a stunningly horrible Lisa Frank backpack for the guns she can’t hide on her person.

In the meantime, Steve has changed into ripped jeans and a T-shirt depicting a mouth with a tongue sticking out of it, cotton hoodie, and a too-big army coat. He pulls on a ratty blue beanie, ducks his head a little, and suddenly looks like either a roadie or a homeless person. It’s rather impressive, actually, the way he somehow shrinks himself down, looking not at all like Captain America.

“Where did you even find these?” she asks. “Did you build a time machine, or something?”

“Nearly.” He smiles, shoves his hands in his pockets. “I go to a lot of thrift stores. Um.” He hesitates for a long moment, then asks, “Can I do your make-up?”

“My _what_?”

“Your make-up,” he repeats. “It’ll make you look… less like you.”

“Do you know _how_ to do make-up?” she says suspiciously.

He rolls his eyes. “I’ve practically lived with your sisters for the past twenty years, Becky. Believe me, I’ve had a _lot_ of practice. Especially when Emmy was going for her beautician license.”

“That—okay. Okay. Fine.” She sits down on the bed, twisting her hands nervously. “Go ahead.”

“Great! Cool. I’ll just...” He rummages in the footlocker again, comes up with a vinyl make-up bag, and starts pulling bottles and brushes out of it. “Foundation and contours,” he says, “can do amazing things.”

He’s right, she thinks when she looks into his small hand mirror ten minutes later. He’s somehow made her face look rounder, her lips smaller, and the glittery eyeshadow and mascara has completely changed the shape of her eyes. He’s also pulled her hair into a sideways ponytail, which sticks through the back of a cock-eyed baseball cap.

She looks like a teenager with bad taste, and nothing at all like the Winter Soldier.

“Good?” he asks, hovering, and she nods, tearing her eyes away from her reflection with an effort.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s good. You’re good, Rogers,” and he flashes that white-toothed grin.

The tooth she’d chipped is growing back, she notes with interest.

“Okay,” he says, “then let’s go.”

 

They take the other exit, which leads to a stairwell and the ground floor of the warehouse, where Steve removes a heavily-reinforced piece of plywood to let them out through a window. Ten minutes’ walk gets them to the waterfront, where they throw her uniform, trackers, and detonator into the river. Then they find the nearest metro stop, and take the train uptown.

Steve’s leading now, and she’s content to follow, riding on subways and buses, walking, and once taking a taxi about eight blocks before getting off again. It’s fully light out by the time they finally get off yet another bus, this time in Queens, and Steve says, “Only about five minutes away, now.”

“Understood.” She’s tired, her _brain_ is tired, and she’s falling back into the Soldier’s patterns of speaking, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He gives her a quick hug around the shoulders, then takes the lead, and she falls into step behind him.

Around them, the city’s waking up: people heading to work, lining up inside Starbucks and rushing to the bus stop, cars honking and blocking intersections. Steve leads them away from the chaos, into a maze of alleys and weedy backyards, to a crumbling apartment building which they access via a convenient shed roof and a fire escape.

This apartment is just as sparse as the others, and even smaller: there’s just one big room plus a bathroom, with a futon, table, two chairs, stove, fridge, and a couple of cupboards. It doesn’t look lived in, but then, neither did the place Steve was actually living in.

She’s beginning to suspect that that’s just how Steve lives, like he’s going to have to run for it at any second. In all fairness, she’d probably do the same.

“It’s not much,” he says apologetically, like she was maybe expecting a five-star hotel. “You can have the futon, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay, I like it. Prefer it, actually.” He runs his hand over his head, pushing off his hat in the process. “The beds here—they’re all too soft. I usually end up sleeping on the floor, anyway.”

Huh. She’s spent the last—ten years, according to Steve—sleeping in a cell with a concrete floor, and has no idea how she’ll sleep in an actual bed. Still, she has to admit it’s an inviting prospect. “Okay,” she says aloud. “Thanks.”

“No problem. You want to use the bathroom first, or—” He stops, squints at her, and changes his mind. “You probably want to case the place, right?”

She nods.

“Okay. Well, here are the keys. I’m gonna use the bathroom and get the futon figured out. Don’t take too long, okay? I don’t want to lose you.” He says it lightly, but his eyes are shadowed as he looks at her, so she answers seriously.

“I’ll be quick.”

“Thanks. I—thanks.” He swallows visibly, then goes into the bathroom and shuts the door.

She checks out the apartment.

The cupboards are full of canned food; the freezer is also stocked, though the fridge is empty. The windows have bullet-proof glass, and are also one-way—they can see out, no one else can see in. There are steel blinds, and the doors and doorframes are also reinforced. The walls are cinderblock, and should block everything short of a rocket launcher.

The door of the apartment opens onto a dingy hall, stained and dirty and smelling of garbage and cat piss. Two floors up, there’s access to the roof from the inside, but not from the outside: she guesses that the metal bar blocking the door was put there by Steve, as it’s too heavy for any normal person to lift.

A scan with Stark’s device shows no electronic in the hall, and informs her that the neighbors own a TV and router: nothing to be concerned about.

Feeling slightly more reassured, she slips back into the apartment, where Steve is struggling to open the futon.

“Hey, Becky. Wanna give me a hand?”

 

He’s put soup on the stove during her absence (“Campbell’s tomato soup—we used to have it after school, with Goldfish, remember?”), and by the time they get the futon unfolded, it’s ready to eat.

“Stupid fucking futon,” Steve says, ladling the soup into bowls. “I could build a fucking carburetor in the time it takes to put that thing together.”

She takes her bowl and frowns at it, feeling overwhelmed. Fifteen hours ago, she had one simple mission, and now everything’s so _complicated._

“Shit, I should have asked.” He’s looking at her in consternation. “I didn’t think—do you still like tomato soup? I should have waited, I just, I thought you’d be hungry, and…”

“I don’t know,” she says, and dips her spoon into it cautiously. “I’ve never… I don’t _remember_ ever having this before.”

She blows on it before taking a mouthful, and decides that yes, she does still like tomato soup. It’s warm and creamy and sweet and a little acidic, and she can feel herself relaxing as she eats. They finish off two cans’ worth between them, along with half of the loaf of bread Steve dug out of the freezer.

Half an hour later, it all comes back up, and Steve holds her hair and offers a stream of apologies while she vomits what feels like her entire guts into the toilet.

She wishes he’d just leave her alone with the agony, but when she goes to get up she finds her legs are shaky, and perhaps Steve supporting her weight while she washes her mouth and face isn’t such a bad thing after all.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats afterwards, hovering as she sits on the futon with her head in her hands. “I should have thought—I shouldn’t have let you eat so much at once, I should have _asked_ …”

“Rogers,” she says wearily, “just shut up, okay? I’m—it’s not your responsibility. I just… I’m not used to that kind of food, alright?”

But if there’s one thing she’s learned about him so far, it’s that Steve Rogers can’t let _anything_ go.

“What the hell were they feeding you, anyway?”

She sighs, rubbing her temples with her palms. “Nutrition.”

Steve makes a confused noise.

“That’s what they called it,” she explains. “It was just… a grey liquid. 8 ounces, 3 times a day. And protein bars, to keep my jaw muscles from atrophying.”

“They didn’t give you _any_ real food?”

“Real food is inefficient.”

His jaw tightens in what is already becoming a familiar expression of righteous anger. “Yeah,” he says in a hard voice. “Can’t let a bit of human decency get in the way of _efficiency._ ”

“Machines don’t need decency,” she says. “They just need to function.”

“You’re not a goddamned _machine._ ”

“Tell that to them.”

His voice is a growl, and he looks surprisingly menacing, with his eyes flashing fire and his big hands balled into fists. “Someday, I’m going to meet those handlers of yours. And I swear to God, when I do, that’s gonna be the last thing they ever hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from a poem by Stephen Crane, referenced later.
> 
> Steve is quoting Hamlet: "There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all." He misquotes slightly, because I'm assuming he doesn't remember it perfectly. Hamlet says this line before going to a duel which he has a premonition he will die in (which turns out to be correct). 
> 
> Content warnings: Becky threatens to kill Steve, and later beats him up fairly badly. Setting of a broken nose. Becky remembers a couple of boys calling Steve a homophobic slur. Vomiting (not too graphic).


	2. In All the Old Familiar Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becky forgets some things, and remembers others. Steve tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Memories/discussions of violence, bodily trauma. Descriptions in end notes.

_Was it the spell of Paris or the April dawn?_  
_Who knows if we shall meet again?_  
_But when the morning chimes ring sweet again..._  
_I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places_

_\--"I'll Be Seeing You, by Sammy Fain and Irving Kahal  
_

She wakes up in an unfamiliar room, on a surface that’s warm and soft and far too comfortable, and there’s someone else there—she can hear water running, probably a shower. For a moment, she lies completely still, assessing: her body is unharmed, she is unrestrained, her uniform is gone but her derringer is tucked into the waistband of her pants. Then she gets up, and finds her weapons lined up on the table, which is pushed against the door.

She can’t remember how she got here, or why—her brain has short-circuited, as it does sometimes, leaving her with only blanks where the past day should have been. Before she can figure out anything further, she hears the shower turn off, then the door opens and a tall, blonde man comes out, barefoot and shirtless, wearing a pair of ratty jeans.

He's been injured, she thinks as she raises her pistol. There are fading bruises around his face and torso, and there are strings sticking out of his nose—maybe it’s been broken?

“ _Don’t move_ ,” she warns.

He raises his empty hands, a look of surprise flitting across his face. “Hey, woah, Becky,” he says—the words are meaningless, collections of syllables with no rhyme or reason to them. “__?”

“ _I said, don’t move. Who are you? Where am I?_ ”

“Arabic?” he says, and then switches languages. “ _I Steve. You safe. Good. I not hurt you.”_

His Arabic is atrocious, but at least she can recognize what he’s saying.

“ _I don’t believe you. Where are we?”_

“ _I… you have English?”_

She ought to, she knows, but when he says something further, she can’t understand a word of it.

 _“No? You speak…_ ” He switches to Kurdish, and this she understands. “ _I am Steve. This is my house. I—we ran from HYDRA. You are safe here. You are Becky. I am your friend.”_

_“I don’t have friends.”_

_“_ I _am your friend_ ,” he insists. “ _I am Steve. You are Becky. We are friends.”_

 _Steve_. She remembers—she _thinks_ she remembers—the name: someone she can trust. She lowers her gun, and he lowers his hands, and they stare at each other for a moment.

“Okay?” he asks finally, and this she recognizes.

“Okay.”

He comes forward slowly, eyes searching hers, maybe for some kind of recognition. “Can you understand me?”

She nods; she can understand, but she can’t seem to make English work right now. Her body feels weak and sluggish, brain buzzing with confusion; none of this makes sense, and now she can’t even figure out which language she’s speaking.

“How about you go take a shower?” he suggests. “It might help you feel better. And I’ll make…” He hesitates, glancing at his watch. “Well, we’ll call it breakfast, I guess.”

“ _Is this an order?”_ she asks in Kurdish. _“Part of a mission?”_

“No, Becky, no. I’m not—you’re done with that, remember? You left them. You’re not doing that anymore.”

It takes her a moment to process this, and then to understand the feeling that sweeps through her, making her dizzy and a little weak in the knees, as relief: profound relief. “ _Thank you_.”

“No need.” He’s smiling at her proudly, like she just won an award. “It was all you, darling. All you.”

She’s not sure about that, but everything seems safe enough, and if she’s not on mission—if she’s _done_ , then—

She heads to the cramped, dingy bathroom with its miniscule shower and spotted mirror, and takes the best shower of her life.

 

By the time she returns to the main room, she’s remembered English and most of last night—or this morning, since the sun is still up. Steve hands her a plate of toast.

“I thought maybe something bland would be better, so you don’t—you know—”

“Puke my guts out,” she supplies, and is vaguely surprised that the phrase comes so readily to her lips. It’s certainly not one her handlers would have taught her.

“Exactly.”

She eats slowly, not wanting to repeat this morning’s experience. Steve, who’s on his third slice, keeps shooting her odd looks, half apologetic, half determined.

“WHAT?” she finally asks in exasperation, after he’s opened his mouth for the fifth time, then closed it again and looked away.

“What?”

“You keep… looking at me!”

“Oh. I. Yeah. Um.” He looks down at his plate, frowning. “I just… I was wondering…” He takes a deep breath. “I was wondering what you want to do next. We can’t stay here forever, and I thought… well. I have friends who could… who could help, maybe.”

A bolt of panic shoots through her, and she stills on instinct, giving her time to process, to assess—no sudden movements, no hasty actions…

“No. No— _friends_ , no one else, I can’t—you can’t tell anyone, you can’t let them know—you can’t hand me over to them, I won’t let you!”

And now she’s standing, leaning over him, hands on the table. “You _can’t!_ ”

“Okay!” His hands go up, in what’s becoming another familiar gesture—not just surrender, but reassurance. “It’s okay, Becky, I’m not going to—look, I’m not doing _anything_ without your permission, okay? You call the shots.”

“I’m not going to do anything without you,” he repeats, and she eases back, feeling her pulse slowing down a little, slowing down.

“They’re S.H.I.E.L.D, aren’t they?” she says. “Your friends.”

He rubs the back of his neck, flustered. “Not exactly. I mean, we all used to be, before it went down, but—the Avengers—I’m not honestly sure what we are, anymore,” he admits. “I don’t think anyone else does, either, to be honest.”

“But they’re—”

“My friends,” says Steve, a little more firmly. “And I trust them. They wouldn’t sell us out, and I—I _think_ they’d help us, if I asked. But I won’t ask, until you want me to.”

“I can’t.”

“Okay.”

She sits down, slumping over the table, and rubs her flesh hand over her face. “You don’t understand. I _can’t_. I don’t even know if I should be—I’m d _angerous_ , I’m a liability, this morning I woke up and I couldn’t even fucking speak _English_.”

“Becky—”

“I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t even be around _you_ , but I can’t seem to help it—I—”

“Becky,” he says again, softly. “I do. I do understand. This is scary, this is—it’s huge, you’ve got to learn how to be a—a person again. And you don’t know my friends like I do, you’ve no reason to trust them—hell, you’ve got no reason to trust _me._ But…” He puts his hand over her metal one, without apparently noticing the difference, waits until she raises her eyes to his. “I think it’s going to be hard for you to—to adjust, I guess—if you don’t have help. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, but… just think about it, alright?”

It takes all her courage to nod. “Alright, I… I’ll think about it.”

“Okay.” He gives her a quick, relieved smile. “And there’s—there’s just one other thing.”

“What?”

“I need to—it would be best if I, if I called them, let them know I’m okay—otherwise they’ll be searching, and—”

“That’s the last thing we need.”

“Exactly.”

She considers, breathing slow and deep, trying to get her recalcitrant brain to operate on logic rather than instinct. “Fine,” she says at last. “But don’t tell them about me.”

“I won’t.”

“And put it on speaker.”

“Okay,” he says, and goes to a kitchen drawer and pulls out a burner phone. “Ready?”

She nods.

Steve dials.

It goes to voicemail, an automated recording.

“Please leave a message after the—”

“Hello?”

“Natasha,” says Steve.

“Are you currently in need of rescue?” she says briskly. Somewhere in the background, there’s the sound of gunfire.

“No, I’m fine. I just—”

“Hang on a sec.” There’s a crash, more gunfire, and then a louder shot, probably from whoever this “Natasha” person is. A moment later, she comes back on, sounding out of breath. “Sorry, just in the middle of a situation here.”

“Are you okay?” asks Steve.

“Yeah, fine, nothing to worry about.” Another crash, and the sound of breaking glass. “So, where are you? What happened?”

“Madison,” says Steve.

“You’re still working on your project, then,” she says flatly.

“Yes, I—yes.”

“And you don’t think—” There’s a distant roar, and her voice turns sharper. “Shit. There goes the big guy. Listen, just don’t get yourself killed, alright?”

“You too,” says Steve, a little helplessly, and the phone goes dead.

He looks up at her. “Believe it or not, that was actually the easier call.”

“You’re making more than one?”

“One more,” he says reassuringly. “Then I’m done.” He doesn’t actually do anything for a moment though, just looks at the phone, biting his lip. After a few second, he heaves a sigh and selects a number.

On the second ring, a male voice answers.

“Whoever this is, this better be important, because I’m a busy man and I haven’t got—”

“Tony,” he interrupts. “It’s Steve.”

“Cap? Where the hell are you? The CIA’s in a fucking panic, they’re telling me you’re dead or kidnapped or both.”

“I’m dead,” says Steve, lips quirking upwards. “I figured I’d come back as a ghost and haunt you via phone.”

“You would,” Tony says darkly. “So what happened? Where _are_ you? Oh my god, are you a hostage right now? Are they demanding ransom? Because I am _not_ paying it, you can break your own ass out of—”

“I’m fine. Tony, listen, I need a favor—”

She shoots him a warning look, hand reaching out, ready to grab the phone if necessary, but he shakes his head at her, mouthing, _“Don’t worry”_ before turning back to the conversation.

“Let me guess, briefcase full of cash, American dollars, Brooklyn Bridge at midnight…”

“No, I’m not a hostage, Tony, seriously, shut up for a sec. Something’s come up. I can’t—I can’t tell you what it is—”

“Cap—”

“No, _listen_ , Tony. I will tell you, but not now, not right now. I—I need to be under the radar for a bit, okay? Just for a few days. I need you to get everyone—the CIA, whoever—off my back.”

“May I remind you that there were _bullet holes_ in your _wall_ , Steve—”

“I had a temper tantrum, took it out on the wall—”

“Not to mention a smashed—bowl, I think they said—”

“Temper tantrum,” Steve repeats. “Listen, it’s all okay, alright? Please, just help me out here. Tell them I had a meltdown, went to Hawaii for a couple days—”

“What did you do, swim there?”

“Tony, come on, man—”

“Okay, okay,” he says, relenting. “I’ll feed them some kinda bullshit, don’t worry.”

“And don’t trace this call.”

“Too late. According to my tech, you’re in Wisconsin.”

Steve sighs. “Yeah, Tony. Wisconsin. That’s great.”

“You’ve got three days, Cap. Then I start getting worried.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah. Three days, remember.”

“I will. Bye, Tony.”

“And don’t—”

Steve hangs up, then turns to her with a grimace. “I’d apologize, but you’re the one who wanted to listen in. You brought this on yourself.”

She just nods; she’s not supposed to be able to get headaches, but she’s pretty sure she has one now.

“Will you give me the phone?”

“The phone?” he says, looking surprised.

“Yes. I… I don’t want you to call anyone. Without. Without me knowing.”

He looks a little hurt. “I wouldn’t go behind your back like that.”

“I know, but—just—it would… make me feel better.”

“Okay,” he says, shrugging. “If it makes you feel better.” He hands it over, then adds, “There’s another one in the milk crate by the futon. With the books.”

The milk crate is indeed full of books—beat-up paperbacks mostly, clearly secondhand. She glances at the titles as she searches through. _The Communist Manifesto. David Copperfield. The Viscount’s Secret. The Life of Frederick Douglas. Pleasure for Pleasure. The Collected Works of John Donne. Protector of the Small. The Color Purple._ From the covers, at least, it seems a mixed bag—a combination of classics, fantasy, romance, and non-fiction. The phone, a sleek silver thing labelled with the Stark Industries logo, is at the bottom, along with what looks like the start of a knitting project, a DVD of _Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back_ , and a tangle of chargers, headphones, and cords.

“Have you read all these?” she asks, holding up one of the steamier-looking romance novels.

Steve squints at it. “Not that one, no. _The Viscount’s Secret_ was pretty funny, though. You should try it.”

She stares at him in disbelief. “If I told anyone what Captain America was really like, they’d never believe me.

He winces. “Tell me about it. I’ve been dealing with this crap for years.”

 

“You’re trying to save me, aren’t you,” she says a little later.

Steve looks down at her from his perch on the countertop, where he’s fixing the loose hinge on the cabinet. Steve, she’s discovered, prefers to have something to do.

“You’re my friend,” he says, which isn’t really an answer—or maybe it is.

“Has it occurred to you that I’m not—who you think I am?”

“It depends,” he says, frowning a little. “Who do you think I think you are?”

She gets up, leans against the sink, and props up the cupboard door with her metal hand, taking the weight off the hinge.

“You think I’m your best friend from childhood—”

“You are—”

“But I’m _not_ anymore. Don’t you see?” She leans around the door to look at him, wanting him to see the truth in her face, hoping maybe he can still read her, even after everything. “I—I can try, but I can’t—I don’t remember—anything, any of it. I can’t—I can’t be the person I was.”

A look of pain crosses his face, and she looks down, letting her hair swing across her face—cowardly, maybe, but she can only deal with one set of emotions right now.

“I don’t know if I can be the person you want me to be,” she mumbles. “I don’t—I don’t know who she is, anymore.”

“Becky.” He lifts the door out of her hands, sets it aside, and takes her face in his hands, thumbs rubbing gently against her cheekbones. “Listen, I don’t… You were my friend. And I miss that friend, I’d do anything for her, for you… But if I didn’t know a thing about you—if all you were, was a stranger—I’d still be here, I’d still want to—to save you, if you want to call it that.”

Something in her stomach flutters, not fear or anger, but some softer emotion. His fingers tingle against her skin like static electricity.

“Would you?” And it’s meant to sound skeptical, but it comes out pleading, half-broken, forced around the broken-bottle sharpness in her throat, the stinging of her eyes.

“I would.” He draws his hands away, as though suddenly aware of what he’s doing, and some part of her aches at the loss. “’Cause the thing is, Becky, you’re a _person_ , and you’ve been—they used you, they did terrible things to you, and… you deserve a choice. A chance. Everyone does.”

“But if you didn’t know me…”

“You probably would have shot me.” He laughs, rueful, and shakes his head. “And I—I might not have known enough to—to try and talk you down. But if I knew—if I thought there was a chance of a person in that—that Soldier suit—I’d have tried, anyhow. I _am_ trying. And the thing is…”

His hand comes up again, like he can’t quite help himself, brushing her cheek once more. “I like you,” he says. “Not just my memory of you, but—you’re a real person, you—you’re smart, and you don’t take my bullshit…”

She snorts at that, tries to ignore that light warmth on her cheek, the proximity of his body, the clean-soap scent of him.

“So. Even if I didn’t know you—I want to be friends, and… I’m doing this for you now, Becky. Whoever you are now. I can’t—I can’t seem to help myself,” and he laughs again, but his eyes are serious. “I don’t think you could keep me away.”

She nods once, overwhelmed, and then it hits her, cold and clear and terrifying: “We weren’t friends,” she says, and his eyes widen. “We were—it was more, wasn’t it? Much more.”

He hesitates, and the hesitation is answer enough. His hands fall back to his thighs, limply, and he swallows. “Okay,” he says at last, and there’s a rasp in his voice. “No, we… God, Becky, we were _everything_.”

“Lovers?” she asks, mouth dry.

He flinches, looks down, then, with an effort, it seems, meets her eyes. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I guess we were.”

It’s too much—too much at once, and she wishes she’d never asked, never found out… She jerks back, away from him, and stumbles, and Steve’s sliding off the countertop, arms out to catch her, before she can fall.

“Becky, wait, no—you’ve—you’ve got the wrong idea, I didn’t—”

“I can’t,” she gasps, wrenching out of his grip. “I can’t _do_ that, I can’t be—”

“You don’t have to,” says Steve desperately. “Listen, I—I don’t, I would _never_ ask that of you, okay? You can—you can feel however you want, I don’t need—God, Becky, this is enough, it’s _more_ than enough, just to know you’re alive, you’re here, you’re safe… I don’t need anything more, I… I’ll take any of this, whatever you want to give me, I don’t need—I won’t ask for anything more. It’s—” He swallows, closes his eyes, opens them again, and she can actually see tears there, clinging to those absurdly long eyelashes. “Becky. I can’t—I _can’t_ let you go. I think—I think I’d actually go insane if you—if I lost you again, but anything else… it’s all you, Becky. Your choice, your call. I won’t—I don’t want anything more.”

For a moment, she just looks at him, at his painfully earnest expression and his hands twisting together, the tears still threatening to fall. And the thing is, she can _see_ it now, the way he looks at her—like she’s the whole world, like it would kill him to lose her, and she doesn’t know how she didn’t see it, how she didn’t notice, before.

It’s frightening, terrifying, actually, but… she believes him.

“Okay,” she says, finally. “Okay. If you—as long as you know—I’m not that person, anymore. We can’t—it’s not going to be like before.”

“I know,” he says. “I understand.”

“Okay,” she repeats, and she doesn’t know what else to do—just stumbles over to the futon and sits down, feeling like all the strength has drained out of her. She can’t seem to look at him, but she’s acutely aware of his presence in the room: the sound of his breathing, the rustle of his T-shirt, his quiet footsteps on the linoleum floor.

Steve goes back to work on the cabinet, but he keeps dropping the door, and finally gives up and sits down at the table. When she dares to glance at him, he’s leaning against it with his head in his hands, and she feels a sharp stab of guilt.

_I wish I’d never asked, I wish I’d never found out…_

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she says at last.

Steve makes a sound that could be a laugh, or a snort. It’s hard to tell, with his hands muffling his mouth. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“You knew I’d—turn you down.”

“ _No._ ” He sits up, dropping his hands. “Jesus Christ, Becky. I just—I didn’t want to freak you out—I didn’t want it to be awkward. I thought… it’s too much, you don’t even—I mean, this morning you didn’t even know who I was, how were you going to feel if I—” He stops, takes a deep breath, and says more calmly, “I thought you might run away again. It’s a lot—a lot to put on someone. _I’m_ a lot to put on someone, me and my damned baggage…”

“You think _you’ve_ got baggage,” she says bitterly.

He makes an irritated sound. “I do, actually, but that’s not the... The point is, I don’t want you to think I’ve got— _expectations._ ”

“But you do.”

“No, I don’t. I have—hopes, maybe.”

She risks looking at him, then; he’s staring at his hands, mouth twisted in an unhappy line. “Like what?”

“Like—that you’ll stay, and get—you know, get your mind—working—better, that—I won’t—lose you, again.” He looks up, meets her eyes. “That’s it, Becky. That’s it.”

There’s a long silence.

“I can—I’ll try for the first,” she says at last. “The other two… we’ll see.”

 

They’re quiet after that, though perhaps a little less awkward. Steve buries himself in a book from the milk crate, though he spends so much time before turning each page that she thinks he’s probably not really reading at all.

She sits on the sofa, staring out the window as the last light fades from the sky outside, replaced by the city lights’ dull orange glow.

It’s fully dark when Steve clears his throat, making her jump.

“You hungry?”

The question flummoxes her. “I don’t know.”

“Well, if I make something, will you eat it?”

“I don’t know,” she repeats, and then, when he shoots her a frustrated look, “I really don’t. It’s—I’m sorry, I’m not used to this.”

“Eating?”

“Eating on… on my own.” It’s not the best choice of words, so she tries to explain further. “I don’t get _hungry_ , Rogers. It’s not—it’s not programmed into me. I just—they fed me, I ate. That’s how it was.”

“Even in the field?”

“The Asset will eat one serving of nutrition every four hours in the field,” she recites. “In sub-par conditions, the Asset may go up to twenty-four hours without sustenance with few ill effects.”

Steve sucks in a horrified breath. “Holy shit, Becky.”

“It’s alright,” she tries to reassure him. “I’m used to it. I don’t need the things real people do to—to survive.”

This attempt seems to have the opposite effect on him. He turns red, and clenches his hands into fists. “You a _re_ a real person, Becky.”

She’s not sure about that, so she looks away, at the rain that’s beginning to spatter the windows.

“You a _re_ ,” he insists.

“Just drop it, will you Rogers?” she says with a sigh. “I don’t—I can’t do this, right now.”

“Fine,” he says, though he’s still tense, muscles bunched up under his shirt like he’s about to punch something. “Okay. I’ll just… I’m gonna make more soup, okay? And then you can have some if you want.”

 

He makes mushroom soup, and she eats it.

 

A little while later, she pukes it back up again.

“So this is HYDRA’s master plan,” she says, when the heaving has stopped and she’s sitting on the couch with a cup of mint tea and Steve’s arm around her. “Make it so I can’t fucking feed myself. Joke’s on me, right? I run away and starve to death.”

“I won’t let you starve to death,” Steve says, rubbing her shoulders. “We’ll figure out something. You were fine with the toast this morning.”

“I can’t live on toast, Rogers.”

“I know, I know. We’ll just—keep trying, okay? Smaller amounts, maybe. Blander foods.”

She leans against the wall and closes her eyes, too worn out to argue. “Sure. Whatever you say, Rogers.”

There’s a pause, and then he says quietly, “Becky?”

“Hm?”

“Would you mind… could you call me Steve, do you think?”

She tenses, a little. She’s been calling him Steve in her head, almost since the first, but it feels—too intimate, too much like the person she knows she can’t be.

“Why?” she says at last.

“The thing is,” he says, and stops. “The thing is,” he tries again, “most of the people who call me Rogers, they don’t—most of them don’t like me very much.”

Somehow, she doesn’t find this surprising. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. People from the—the army, teachers, I don’t know… it just… I guess people mostly used my last name when they’re pissed off at me.” His mouth twists into a wry smile. “Even that prick Rumlow.”

“I know that name,” she says, frowning.

“He was a HYDRA agent. He’s dead, now.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another silence.

“So,” he finally says, “what do you think? You think you could stand to use my first name?”

“I… yeah. Yes. Maybe.”

When he smiles this time, it’s soft, affectionate. “Thanks.”

 

She falls asleep after a while, listening to the rain beat on the windows and Steve humming as he washes the dishes.

_She walks through a garden, high hedges on either side, and she thinks there’s something she’s meant to do, something left undone, but she can’t remember what it is, and she rounds the corner and…_

_There are children there, playing; they haven’t seen her yet, and two of the girls are twirling a skipping rope for the other. Their chant fills her ears, punctuated by the slap of the rope:_

_“Cinder-ella, dressed in yell-a, went upstairs to kiss a fella…”_

_Her hand moves, then, apparently of its own accord: her left hand, her metal hand. It’s holding a gun._

_“No,” she says, but she can’t put her arm down—it won’t cooperate, the metal plates unresponsive to the rest of her body._

_“No!”_

_But she’s shooting, quick and efficient, and the girls fall one after another, their dresses stained crimson. The other children are screaming, and their cries blend in with the screaming in her own head, coming from her own throat…_

_“No, no, NO!”_

_And the Doctor is there, holding his clipboard and nodding, smiling. “We are making excellent progress. You will soon be mission-ready.”_

_“NO,” she tries to tell him, but her mouth doesn’t work either, and what comes out is, “Target?”_

_Alexander Pierce smiles at her, a shark’s smile, bright and cruel. “Look.”_

_She turns, and there’s Stevie, scrawny and pale as ever, reaching out for her._

_“Becky!”_

_“No!” she cries, but her gun is already aimed at him; she can hear them laughing as she pulls the trigger…_

“Becky.”

_He screams, he’s screaming, there’s blood, and it’s on her hands, in her mouth, everywhere…_

“Becky!”

_Stevie’s bleeding to death and she has to, she’s got to help, but her gun keeps firing, won’t stop, bullets flying everywhere, blood everywhere…_

“Becky, come out of it. Come out of it, now. You’re alright.”

There’s a hand on her shoulder, rubbing, and a familiar voice, and…

“Becky.”

She opens her eyes. Steve is kneeling on the floor next to her, face creased in concern; she’s lying curled up on the futon.

They’re in the apartment—Steve’s apartment.

Her mouth still tastes of blood; she’s bitten her tongue. They’re alone.

“Becky?”

She sits up, shaky, and clutches at Steve’s arm. “Steve…” she whispers. “Stevie, don’t let me hurt you.”

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” he says. “It’s okay.”

Her voice is a wreck; she’s nearly sobbing, tears welling up in her eyes, in her throat. “I—I did it, I killed them, I didn’t _want_ to, Stevie, I just… I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop, I _had_ to, I—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, squeezing her hand. “You were—it was a nightmare, that’s all. You were dreaming.”

“But it wasn’t.” She leans forward, resting her head against his shoulder, anchoring herself against him. “It wasn’t, I—I did—I did that, I killed… I _murdered_ them, Steve…”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, sweetheart, I know. But it’s gonna be okay, now. It’s over, it’s all over, and it’s gonna be okay.”

“I,” she starts, but can’t finish—she’s really crying now, all semblance of control gone.

Steve makes soothing noises and sits down on the futon with his back to the wall, pulling her over to him. She goes, not thinking about the complicated links between them, caring only that he’s there, warm and solid and reassuring. She curls into him, half on his lap, and he puts his arm around her. He’s only three inches taller than her, and she’s probably heavier given her metal arm, but he holds her like he might a child: as though she’s small and fragile and precious.

Steve rubs her back and strokes her hair until her tears stop and she’s able to control her breathing again. She lies limply against his chest, breathing him in, feeling his hand on her hair.

“The thing is,” she says at last in a hollowed-out voice, “The thing is, I don’t… I can’t tell. I mean, I know it was a dream, but… it could have—I could have done it in real life, too.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I—I’ve killed—I don’t know how many, but—it was a lot.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“But I—you don’t understand,” she snaps, frustrated. She pushes back a little, so she can look him in the face. “How can you even—how can you stand to even look at me? The things I’ve done—I’m a murderer, a monster. I’m… I’ve killed _kids_ , Steve, people who—who’d never done anything—”

“I know,” he says softly, still rubbing her back. “I know.”

“How can you—how can you possibly know?”

“I read your file.”

“My… what?”

“Your file,” he repeats, meeting her eyes. “When S.H.I.E.L.D. went down, we got access to a bunch of HYDRA stuff. We found—one of my friends found a file on you. The Winter Soldier Project.”

She feels the breath catch in her lungs, like a knife twisted between her ribs. “What… what does it…”

“They kept track,” says Steve, and his voice is suddenly hoarse—anger, she thinks, but perhaps there’s grief there, as well. “All the stuff they did to you—torture, brainwashing, it’s—horrible—and the things they made you do. Assassinations.”

“I want to see it.”

“I—I don’t have it.”

“What do you mean—you just said—”

“I mean,” he corrects, “I don’t have it here. It’s at the Tower, with the rest of my stuff. I—I can try to get it back, later, if we—after we decide what we’re doing.”

“Your stuff is at the Tower,” she repeats, slowly, and she can almost hear the whirring, tumblers sliding into place, as it all clicks. “Wait… that apartment—you—you _planned this_ , didn’t you?”

He gives her a surprised look. “I thought you knew that?”

“You said—you didn’t say—”

“I told you I’d been expecting you, I thought you realized—”

“You didn’t say—Steve, _what the hell did you do?_ ”

He chews on his lip, apparently thinking this through. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna start with—I told you how I figured out it was you, right? On the bridge, when your mask came off.”

She nods.

“And then we got captured, and, um, some of our other friends broke us out, and killed Pierce—and then there was the, there was this whole fight the next day, and I thought you’d show up, but you didn’t. And the file only goes to a few weeks before that, so I don’t know, but… they pulled you, for some reason. I don’t know whether it’s because of Pierce, or because—there was a moment, you hesitated and I—I thought you almost, you almost recognized me, so maybe… they might have…”

“Reconditioned me,” she supplies. “If I was compromised—that would make sense. And Pierce was dead,” she adds, half to herself. “Pierce—he used me more than anyone. He wanted to send me in for _everything._ I remember them fighting about it, him and…” She can’t remember the name. She _knows_ there was someone else there, but….

“That would make sense,” says Steve. “So—I knew you were out there. And I was going half crazy, at first, trying to—I was determined to find you, help you—escape, or, or—but Peggy, she said to wait. She knew—I mean, HYDRA’s been after me since day one, you know? So we knew they’d come after me eventually. And I—I started making plans, you know, so if we went on the run, we’d have someplace to go.”

“The tunnel. The warehouse.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Who’s Peggy?”

“Well, she _was_ a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, now she’s—well. I guess you could call her a contractor. I would’ve—she would have helped with this, only she’s underground at the moment, so…”

“So you—you’ve just been waiting for me to—to show up?”

“Sort of.” His mouth twists into a cynical smile. “I’ve been going after HYDRA bases, making a big show of it, and they kept sending people after me—and I kept, you know, killing them off—I think they didn’t, maybe, want to send you if someone else could do it, but—no one else could. But there was no getting to me in the Tower, so…”

“You made yourself an easy target,” she realizes. “You were—they said, the recon agents, they said you were predictable.”

“In every weekday night at six, except for Fridays. Gone every other weekend. Runs every morning,” he says, grinning. “Except for how…”

“You used a different route every time…”

“Different places, different transport, different doors into the building…”

“Bullet-proof glass,” she says, remembering one of the aspects of the mission that had frustrated her. “And lousy sight-lines, so I _had_ to enter the apartment for the kill—”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you just snipe me, before we’d had a chance to talk—”

“You were completely accessible, but only in that apartment.”

He gives her a smug look. “Go on, tell me I’m a genius.”

Her lips feel stretched and stiff; it’s a moment before she realizes she’s smiling. “You… I can’t believe you,” she says wonderingly. “I can’t—I can’t believe you did this.”

He laughs out loud, not because anything’s funny, she realizes after a bemused moment, but out of sheer relief. “I can’t… I can’t believe it _worked!_ ”

 

“Okay, let’s try oatmeal, I’ve got instant oatmeal—just like, half a bowl, take it really slowly…”

“Yeah, I get the idea.”

 

“I’m still—Steve, all those things I did—”

“That wasn’t you, Becky.”

“I know, but I did them.”

Steve’s quiet for a while, chewing his lip. At last, he says, “There was this one time, when we were in the army, when we got sent to—this place. We were told it was a Taliban hideout. There was a—a house, doors shut, hostiles inside. And, you know, you’re not supposed to—you can’t risk them coming after you. And we—we’d done this before, it was what you did—open the door, throw a grenade in, shut the door, wait for the explosion. And then you could go in and search the place. So I did. And when I opened the door…” He swallows.

“When I opened the door, there was a woman and three kids.”

She feels her throat go tight, but simply nods—she doesn’t remember, exactly, but the situation is familiar to her. The Soldier didn’t leave a lot of collateral damage, usually, but she hadn’t gone out of her way to avoid it, either.

Steve twists his hands together, looking at the floor. “It wasn’t a terrorist cell,” he says. “We’d gotten—our information was wrong. And I’d just killed these people—I don’t even know what their names were, anything. We searched the place and left. God—God knows what their—their friends, or family, thought, when they found them. I…” He takes a breath, visibly pulling himself together. “I think that was the moment,” he says, a little shaky. “That was when I really realized how—how even if you—you’re trying to do the right thing—it’s so easy to cross the line. Nat—Natasha says, she talks about having a—a ledger. Stuff she’s gotta make up for. But the truth is—I think all of us do.”

There’s silence for a little while after that, and the tick of the rain against the windowpane sounds very loud.

After a while, she says, “It doesn’t make what I did… any better.”

“No,” says Steve, quiet. “But it’s not—it’s not black and white out there, Becky. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that.”

 

“Tell me about your friends.”

“Well, there’s Peggy, you’ll like her—she’s an agent—recruited me, actually—and she’s tough as nails, and kind, and… well. And Natasha, she used to be HYDRA—Russian—do they still call it the KGB? Anyway, she’s like, five feet tall, but she can kill you in a million different ways without even trying, and she’s the queen of snark… and Clint, he’s a sniper too, only he uses a bow and arrows. Yeah, I know, it weirded me out too, but he’s super good with them—they’re like, special, they can punch through armor and shit. Sam, he’s… just the best person, ever, and the rest of us don’t deserve him… he was in Iraq, and he works at the VA, and he has—wings, and _man_ can he fly. Bruce is kind of—he’s just really quiet, and sweet, he’s a doctor—but then he turns into the Hulk and—mostly just smashes stuff, which is a little bizarre, honestly. And Tony…” Steve sighs deeply. “You know, I just don’t know about Tony.”

“He’s the one you asked for help.”

“Yeah, because… he’s sort of—he’s the one with all the money, all the tech. We couldn’t—we couldn’t do what we do, without him, but…” Steve shrugs, uncomfortable. “He’s… he can be a little hard to like, you know? I just—I don’t know. We don’t… we’ve never gotten along all that great.”

“You don’t…” She frowns, trying to follow a line of thought that feels important, but elusive. “Are all your friends—you know, like you? Spies, soldiers, super—superpowered?”

He thinks about it, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I… I guess so,” he says after a while. “Except for your sisters, but they’re… they’re more like family. I don’t…” He hesitates. “I’m not all that good at making friends,” he says finally.

 

The oatmeal stays down, and she manages to eat enough of that and toast that by the time they go to bed, around four in the morning, she feels reasonably full. She thinks she does, anyway. She’s gotten so used to ignoring all but the most pressing needs of her body that it’s difficult for her to tell what it needs. It’s freeing, but also frightening, to interpret what’s going on herself, without any handlers to tell her what to do, or monitor her body.

At some point, lying in the dark with the distant rumble of traffic outside and Steve’s slow breathing filling the room, she realizes that she can’t remember ever thinking of her body as just that— _hers_.

 _But it_ is _mine_ , she tells herself, flexing the fingers of her right hand. It doesn’t feel like hers; it feels like a stolen car, which she can drive perfectly but might be taken away at any moment. _It’s_ mine _, and I won’t—I won’t let them take it back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from a WWII era song, "I'll be Seeing You" by Sammy Fain and Irving Kahal.
> 
> I made up "The Viscount's Secret", but all the other books in Steve's milk crate are real.
> 
> The dialogue "Those things I did", "That wasn't you", "I know, but I did them" is taken from Captain America: Civil War-- I didn't look it up, so it might not be verbatim. 
> 
> Steve's story about the grenade is based on a real incident from World War II.
> 
> Content warnings: Becky throws up again (not graphic), Becky dreams about killing children, and Steve tells Becky about accidentally killing civilians in Afghanistan.


	3. Because it is Bitter, and Because it is My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becky and Steve discuss names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Bodily trauma. Details in the end notes.

 

 

_Doff thy name,_

_And for that name, which is no part of thee_

_Take all myself._

_\--_ Romeo and Juliet _, William Shakespeare_

She sleeps fitfully, more nightmares filtering into her tired brain and breaking up her sleep. She wakes up with the taste of iron in her mouth, and takes a minute to reorient herself: no injuries ( _you’re safe_ ), a bare apartment ( _Steve’s apartment)_ , weapons nearby ( _you’re safe_ ), a man asleep on the floor, face smushed into his pillow, blonde hair sticking up in the back ( _Steve_ ), no visible threats ( _you’re safe_ ).

Yellow light is flooding in through the rain-speckled windows, making odd reflections on the wall; the clock on the stove says _1:17._   For a few minutes, she just stands and looks out the window, at the dingy back end of an alley and the blind, smog-smeared sides of buildings, framing an uneven square of blue sky above. She remembers someone talking about heaven, how, if you were good, you’d go there when you died.

Standing here, in this shitty apartment in this rundown neighborhood, she can sort of understand; it’s easy to believe that she’s dead—that she’s a ghost, that this is her strange version of paradise.

 _But it can’t be,_ she thinks, and her gaze shifts to her metal hand, hanging innocently at her side. _If there_ was _any kind of afterlife, I’d go straight to hell. Probably be a breeze compared to—before._

Behind her, Steve stirs; she counts it a victory when she turns slowly, relaxed, and doesn’t reach for her gun as he yawns and blinks at her.

“Wh’ timezzit?” he asks blearily.

“One twenty-six.”

“Uh.” He rubs his face with his hands, then runs his fingers through his hair, making it stick up even further. “You’re still speaking English.”

“Yes.”

“Tha’s encouraging.” He yawns again, hugely, and crawls out of the sleeping bag. “Want coffee?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll make enough for both of us, then.” He goes to the freezer, removing a package of something called NesQuick, and opens the coffeemaker.

The coffee smells wonderful, but the same can’t be said for the taste. She takes a sip and makes a face.

“Too bitter?” asks Steve. “Here.” He hands her a tin full of little containers, the kind that you get in cafes. “Put in one creamer, one and a half sugar packets.”

She does as directed, handing him the half-sugar-packet without thinking about it. He grins, and dumps it into his own mug.

This time, when she drinks, the flavor is much more pleasant—rich and earthy, without the overwhelming bitterness.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

He smiles at her. “That’s how you always took it—and I always took the leftover half-a-sugar packet.”

Something small and fragile blooms in her chest, the tiniest of buds stretching toward the sun. Her voice is unexpectedly hoarse. “I guess… some things don’t change, huh?”

“No,” he says. “Some things don’t.”

 

“I think it’s the name,” she says later.

Steve, who’s doing one-armed push-ups in the miniscule space between the stove, table, and futon, pauses in mid-air to look at her. “The name?”

“My name.” She shifts position on the futon, feeling self-conscious. “I think… I think I need to change it.”

“Well, I can certainly relate to that.” He jumps to a standing position and comes to sit next to her, dusting off his hands as he goes. “Any particular reason?”

“I’m not the Asset anymore,” she says. “And I’m not the—the Soldier. What was the name?”

Steve grimaces. “The Winter Soldier.”

“Yes. I’m not that, either. But…” She holds up one of the photos she’s been staring at for the past half-hour: the picture of the two of them from Steve’s wallet. “Becky Barnes. She’s… I’m not her, anymore.”

She smooths the photo with her flesh fingers, regretting the fold marks in it. The two children look out at her, grinning. “She’s a little girl. Pigtails. I can’t… that’s not… it doesn’t work. I—I don’t remember, I can’t place….”

“I understand,” he says quietly.

“And this—” She turns to the other picture, of the confident young woman in army uniform. “Rebecca. I’m not her, either. I—she’s dead, she died. And I don’t—I don’t want to be the—the shell of someone else. I don’t—I was a ghost, I _fe_ _lt_ like a ghost, and those names—it’s like there’s someone who’s supposed to be in here—” she taps her head— “and they’re gone.”

Steve’s silent for long enough that she starts to worry, but then he rests a hand lightly on her knee and says, “I’m sorry, Be—I’m sorry. I wish… well, it doesn’t do any good, does it? But I’ll—I’ll call you whatever you want, whatever helps. I should… I should have asked, before. I know how it is to have—to get stuck with a name that doesn’t fit.”

A lump comes into her throat; she’d been worried about how he’d react, afraid that he’d take it as a rejection of their shared past, of him. “Thank you,” she manages.

“Don’t,” he says, squeezing back. “I’m not—I shouldn’t have assumed, before.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but… never mind. Do you—do you know what you might want? For a new name?”

She thinks of what he’s told her of his own name. “Something… not too different. I want to—to recognize it, when you say it.”

He nods. “Well, there’s your middle name, Jean.”

“N-no, I don’t think… no.”

“Some form of Rebecca? Becca, Reba, Reebok—”

“ _Reebok_?”

“Well, you never know, you could do some advertising, maybe get free shoes—ouch, I was kidding!” he adds as she punches him in the shoulder. “Okay, okay. Um… I’m not too good at this, to be honest. Jeanie, Jennie, Jeanine… Rachel, Rabbit, Beckra, Becker, Beck, Bucket—”

“Wait—the one you just said.”

“Bucket?”

“No, idiot. The—the one before that.”

“Beck.”

“Beck,” she repeats, testing it out. She likes it, she thinks. The soft sound of the _B_ , the sharpness of the _k._ “That… could work.”

“Beck,” says Steve. “Well, it’d be easy to remember, anyway.”

“Will you—would you mind calling me—”

“Of course,” he says immediately. “Beck. And if you end up wanting something else, you can change it again. Don’t even have to do any paperwork.”

She smiles at that, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. Suddenly, she feels that she fits a little better in her own skin. “Thanks.”

“Hey, no, no worries,” he says, waving it away. “I’m just returning an old, old favor.”

 

“Hey, could you do me another nose-related favor?”

She turns from the window, wary. “What?”

Steve waves a hand at his nose. “I think it’s healed—usually twenty-four hours is plenty. Would you mind—”

“Taking the tampons out?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs. “Okay. Stand against the wall.”

He obeys, and she places her right hand on his forehead, holding him in place, while she pulls on the string with her metal hand. Steve stands perfectly still until the thing is out of his nostril, then lets out a breath.

“Ew. Okay, I’m fine, I’m fine. Do the other one.”

“Bossy,” she says, but she removes the other tampon.

The moment she’s finished, he rubs his hand over his nose, massaging it, and takes several deep breaths. “Ugh. Ugh, ew. Alright. Thanks.”

She rolls her eyes, but can’t resist touching his healed nose with her flesh hand, checking for herself to make sure he’s alright. His skin is so soft, though, and she finds herself stroking his cheek with her finger, enjoying the sensation. Steve’s eyes flutter closed, and she whips her hand away, realizing what she’s doing.

“Anyway,” she says flatly. “You’d better wash your face. You’ve got blood on it.”

 

Steve makes chicken soup for lunch, and she manages about half a bowlful and a piece of toast without any mishap.

“You’re improving,” he says hopefully, and she snorts.

“Yeah, maybe in ten years I can eat a steak, if I don’t starve to death first.”

He laughs, and she feels her shoulder muscles easing ever so slightly at the sound. It feels good, that she can make him laugh. Like maybe she really can be a real person, after all.

“I’ll do—” _Shit_ , she thinks, as the term comes up blank. She waves at the sink. “You know. The… lunch… things.”

“You don’t have to—I can—”

“No, you made lunch.”

“Are you sure? Can you—you know—will it be okay, with…” he nods in the direction of her arm.

She stares at him, feeling her face turn hot. She’d thought he didn’t mind the arm, that he understood, but… “I’m not going to _break_ them,” she says coldly.

Steve looks surprised, then horrified. “Oh—no! Beck, I didn’t—I didn’t mean _that_!”

Her heart’s pounding too fast, her hands clenching and unclenching. It’s difficult to get the words out around the tightness in her throat. “Then what did you mean?”

“I—I just thought—” He looks panicky, like someone faced with an explosive and a countdown. “Your arm is—metal, so I wasn’t sure—with the water—if it got rusty, or…”

It’s such a stupid thing that it takes a moment for her to realize what he’s talking about, and when she does, she almost laughs. “Steve, how the hell do you think I take a _shower_?”

He looks so comically ashamed of himself that she actually does laugh—a rasping, barking sound, so unfamiliar that Steve actually jumps.

“You’re such an idiot,” she says, and is surprised to hear the warmth in her own voice. “What kind of assassin gets _rusty_ when they get wet?”

Steve smiles, shamefaced, rubbing the back of his head. “I’m an idiot,” he says. “Sorry. You just… uh… carry on.”

“Yes, sir,” she says ironically, and she’s still smiling as she begins to clear the table.

 

She likes washing dishes, she discovers; the repetitiveness is soothing, and she likes the warmth of the water, and the way the sunlight glints of the metal soup pot.

Steve is sitting on the couch, and she watches him out of the corner of her eye. He’s found a pad of paper somewhere, and he’s writing something; when she pauses to set a plate on the dishtowel spread on the counter, she can hear the scratch of his pencil.

 _What is he writing?_ she wonders. _A shopping list? Escape plans? Poetry? Oh god, does Captain America write poetry?_

It doesn’t seem likely—but then, there’s at least one book of poetry in that milk crate, and she hadn’t expected him to be a reader of romance novels, either.

 _I really don’t know him at all,_ she thinks a little ruefully, rinsing the spoons. _I wish I knew what he sees in me._

With the last of the dishes done, she goes to sit down next to him, glancing at his notepad as she does.

She freezes.

Steve looks up, catches her gaze, and immediately begins to stammer.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t—I just—”

She can’t speak, just holds out her hand, and he gives it to her, looking anguished and guilty as only Steve can. She takes it in both hands, staring, ignoring Steve’s babbled apologies, because he wasn’t writing—he was drawing.

He was drawing _her._

A rough sketch, all sharp lines and thick shadows, but it’s unmistakable. And yet…

The thing is, it took a moment for her to recognize herself, because it’s not—it’s not the Asset, and it’s not Rebecca Barnes. It’s so different from any way she’s ever seen herself before.

He’s drawn just her upper body, her face in profile, her hands in the midst of scrubbing a plate. There’s a light patch on her metal arm where the sun reflects off it, and more light on her face; there are shadows under her eyes, and her hair’s pulled back into a messy ponytail. She looks… normal. Tired, and there are lines of… pain, or tension, perhaps, around her mouth and eyes, but she doesn’t look like a weapon.

The woman he’s drawn is just a person. Just a person—but there’s clear affection in every line of it, a softness in the pencil strokes that betokens something more.

She remembers being in a room full of sketches, an exhibit of some artist’s drawings of his lover, how he had drawn her over and over, in the most mundane of poses—as though he couldn’t stop. She had stood and looked for a moment, reminded of something—but there had been something else she was supposed to do, some dignitary to murder, and she’d walked away…

Now she thinks she knows what the sketches reminded her of. She’s not sure how she feels about that, except that her throat is tight and her chest is tight and it actually _hurts_ but she doesn’t want to let the drawing go.

“I should have asked,” says Steve, and he’s standing, now, looking worried. “I just—it’s been so long since I’ve drawn you, I just couldn’t seem to help myself.”

“It’s alright,” she says, and then, with an effort, “I like it.”

It’s worth it just to see his face light up like that, going from dejection to elation in an instant.

_“Really?”_

“Yes.” She makes another effort. “You could—you could draw me—again. If you want.”

He looks, if possible, even more joyous than before. “Would you—you wouldn’t mind? Could I—would you sit for me now? I could do it so much better—it’s harder when you’re moving—”

“Okay,” she says, feeling slightly off-balance. “I’m—I’m good at sitting still.”

“Perfect.” He takes the sketchpad out of her unresisting hands, and guides her to a seat on the couch. “If you just sit by the window—there, the light—oh, here, why don’t you grab a book, it’ll be easier—”

She takes a book at random, though she doesn’t need it—she’s used to spending hours in stillness, during missions, before strikes. She doesn’t want to tell Steve this, though, so she flips open to a random page.

It takes a moment for the letters to resolve themselves into recognizable patterns—the Roman alphabet, left-to-right, English. It’s poetry, she realizes after a moment. She has a vague recollection of poetry being fairly boring, but Steve is already sketching away with his tongue between his teeth and she doesn’t want to disturb him for another book, so she wills the letters into words and reads:

_In the desert_

_I saw a creature, naked, bestial,_

_Who, squatting upon the ground,_

_Held his heart in his hands,_

_And ate of it._

_I said, “Is it good, friend?”_

_“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;_

_“But I like it_

_“Because it is bitter,_

_“And because it is my heart.”_

 

She makes a small, wounded noise in her throat, and Steve looks up immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

She points to it, and Steve reads quickly, a small frown on his face.

“Stephen Crane,” he says quietly, and meets her eyes. “He gets it, doesn’t he?”

“I,” she starts, but her mouth is dry. She can’t finish.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

He flips the worn pages, then reads aloud:

“'Should the wide world roll away

Leaving black terror

Limitless night,

Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand

Would be to me essential

If thou and thy white arms were there

And the fall to doom a long way.'”

 

“If thou—I don’t,” and her pulse is beating too fast again, thundering in her ears. “I don’t understand.”

“It means…” He swallows, looks down at the page, but she’s pretty sure he’s not reading. “If everything went to hell, and there was nothing left—it wouldn’t matter, if… if you still had—the person you—you cared most about—it wouldn’t matter. ' _And the fall to doom a long way_ ,'” he quotes, and gives her a strained smile. “That’s the part that always got me. Because—because the fall—you fell, and everything—everything did go to hell, and I—I didn’t know where to stand. I felt like… he knew, somehow. He knew exactly how I felt.”

“But he didn’t.” She says it like a statement, but it’s more of a question. “He’s not—you don’t _know him_ \--?”

Steve shakes his head. “I think he died in like the 1900s or something. He just. He just had insight, I guess.”

“I don’t. I don’t have white arms.” It’s not what she means, but somehow she can’t get the image out of her head. Some beautiful, willowy woman with thin pale arms, whole and unmarred, like the ones on the cover of Steve’s romance novels….

“No,” says Steve. “I like yours better.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not—you don’t need to—to try to make me… feel better. You don’t—I don’t want you to pretend.”

“All this time we’ve spent together,” he says, “and you still haven’t figured out how shit I am at lying?”

She looks at him, then, and his face is open, his eyes so blue, so clear, and his lips are soft and red and slightly parted.

It hurts, the way he looks at her, like he can’t bear to look anywhere else. It hurts, but it would hurt more, she thinks, if he did look away. He orients himself toward her like a plant toward the sun, and she feels…

Something stirs, deep in her belly, something warm and wonderful, buzzing up her spine, strange and familiar at the same time. It clicks into place like the clip sliding into a gun, and when she brings her metal hand up to cup his cheek he doesn’t flinch, but his eyes grow soft and surprised.

Her whole body is tingling, now, electric and terrifying, and Steve’s breath is coming fast, his hands pressed palm-down on his thighs.

“Hold still,” she says.

He nods, just the smallest bit. His pupils are dilated; when she puts her flesh hand to his neck, she can feel his pulse fluttering like a moth against a lamp.

He keeps very, very still as she leans forward, as she shifts her hand to the nape of his neck, as she brushes her lips against his.

 

His lips are dry and soft, his heartbeat fast but steady under her hands. She touches her forehead to his, breathing in the clean, warm scent of him; they’re so close she can feel his eyelashes brushing against her cheeks.

When she kisses him again, his mouth opens, inviting, and after a moment of uncertainty, she forges ahead, using her tongue to explore the shape of his mouth, the ridges of his teeth.

Steve moans a little, and moves his head just enough to give her a better angle, but the rest of his body is quite still. It’s not passivity: she can feel the energy thrumming beneath his skin, the effort he’s making not to move. He’s giving himself to her, letting her explore this new territory however she needs to, and the gratitude she feels might be overwhelming if she wasn’t so entirely focused on the sensation of her mouth on his, of Steve’s ragged breaths and the helpless little sounds he makes when she flicks her tongue across his teeth.

She pulls away, and he opens his eyes, licks his red lips.

“Beck,” he says, hoarsely. “Beck…”

“Is that.” She’s panting, too, her entire body fizzing like she’s just been shocked. “Is that what you… is that what we… is this right? Am I—”

“You’re perfect,” he says. “Beck, you’re perfect, you’re wonderful, you’re so—you’re—”

“Kiss me back, this time,” she says, and he does.

 

It’s a long time later when they finally break apart. Steve is on his back on the couch with her on top of him—she’s worked up to letting him move his arms, and he’s got one hand on her spine and the other on the back of her thigh, warm and strong and entirely unthreatening.

Beck feels like she’s just won a marathon—several marathons. It’s like running through an exploding building, and nothing at all like a successful kill—all adrenaline and endorphins, and none of the cold calmness that usually comes with a finished job.

She can’t keep her hands from stroking his hair, his face; she wants to stay like this forever, with his body fitted against hers, his breath soft on her neck.

“You okay?” he asks gently, and she nearly laughs—he’s flushed and panting, pinned beneath her, and there are bruises on his neck from where her mouth has been, and _of course_ he thinks _she_ might be the one who needs looking after.

Then again, what else could you expect from a man who’d offer an assassin ice cream?

“Yeah,” Beck says, grinning at him. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He smiles, and brings a hand up to stroke her cheek. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

 

“We’re out of bread,” Steve says over dinner.

She looks up from her toast. “Okay?”

He looks a little nervous, playing with his spoon. “I thought… would it be okay… I mean, I could, uh. Get some supplies?”

Beck considers this for a moment. She doesn’t want to let him out of her sight, but it has less to do with trust, and more to do with… well. Steve makes her feel safe, whole. There’s a part of her that’s convinced that the moment he’s gone, she’ll fall into that blankness again, forget herself and, even worse, him.

“I promise I won’t be gone long,” he says. “I’d—I’d say we could both go, but it seems…”

“Unwise,” she finishes. “Yes.” There’s a pause as she gathers her courage, trying to be as open with him as he’s been with her. Words still don’t come easily, but she’s beginning to realize how much it matters that she at least tries. “I trust you,” she says finally. “It’s just that I… I’m afraid, without you—if I forget—”

He reaches across the table, and she takes his hand without thinking about it, his fingers warm and solid in her grip.

“You won’t forget,” he tells her firmly. “I’ll be gone for maybe half an hour, and you’re going to be _fine_. You’re stronger than you think, Beck. You don’t really need me at all.”

“I do. I do need you.”

His face does something complicated, and his grip on her hand tightens. “I suppose it’s only fair,” he says after a moment. “’Cause I need you, too.”

This doesn’t seem likely, but the emotions in this situation are getting difficult to handle. She withdraws her hand. “You should get supplies,” she says. “I’ll be alright.”

“I won’t go if you don’t want—”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Okay.” He finishes his soup in a couple of gulps, then stands and pulls on the puffy jacket, the woolen beanie. He’s got a couple days’ worth of scruff on his face, and when he puts on a pair of ugly, plastic-framed glasses, he looks… well. Older, disreputable, and definitely not like Captain America.

Beck rather wants to kiss him again.

At the door, he hesitates, fiddling with the keys in his hand. “I’ll be back soon.”

“I know.”

“You’ll… you’ll still be here, right? You won’t leave?”

“I won’t leave,” she says, trying to make her words ring with sincerity the way his do. “I promise.”

“Okay. Okay.” He takes a deep breath, as if to say something else, then changes his mind, and opens the door. “See you—”

“In half an hour.”

“Yes.”

With a last, backward glance, he shuts the door behind him. She can hear his footsteps going down the stairs.

 

It’s 9:03 when he leaves, 9:46 when he returns, but it feels far longer than forty minutes. Beck does the dishes and cleans her guns, and tries to read, but the letters dance in front of her eyes and refuse to make sense. When the key finally turns in the lock, she jumps to her feet, drawing her pistol, then holsters it again when Steve enters, laden with grocery bags.

“Hey,” he says, looking just as relieved as she feels. “You’re still here.”

She shuts the door behind him. “You came back.”

“I guess we’re even, then,” he says with a smile, and puts the bags on the table. “I got bread and instant oatmeal and bananas, cereal, milk, eggs—I’m gonna make pancakes, see how you like them—uh—some more tea, I thought that might be good for your stomach—and pasta…”

He lays the items out on the table as he speaks, and Beck begins to put them away, falling into the rhythm of it as easily as if they’ve always done this.

 _Maybe we have_ , she thinks, and for the first time, the idea doesn’t frighten her. She wants it to be true, she realizes—if she can’t remember, then perhaps her instincts will at least carry her through.

 

Later, they curl up on the futon, Beck’s head on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve reads _The Viscount’s Secret_ aloud, doing ridiculous accents for all the different characters to make her laugh.

It’s easier to laugh, now, than it was.

“’Three words,’” he reads in a terrible British accent. “’Selina, my love, say those three words to me!’”

“Words,” she says suddenly, cutting him off. “Steve—”

“What’s wrong?”

“There are words,” she says urgently. “In my head. They’ll use—they can control me. It happened—I remember…”

“What do you remember?” he prompts.

“I tried,” she says, and she can feel the fear welling up in her throat, choking her. “I—I got free, once, I tried to—to get away. I don’t—I don’t know where I went, but I—I think I managed—a month, maybe. And they came for me.” She swallows hard, hands clenching. “I—I was fighting them—I almost—I almost got away—but—there was a man, he came and he said… words.”

“Just random words?”

She nods. “I don’t—I don’t know what they were, but I… it was like—I just. I lost my mind. I had to—I couldn’t fight it, there was nothing—I _had_ to do what he said.” A shudder runs through her, and Steve tightens his arm around her shoulder. “If I—if they find me, if they say the words—I won’t be able to fight them, Steve. I can’t—they could tell me to do anything, to kill you, and I—I would.”

“You got out of it this time,” he points out. There’s a quiet pride in his tone that makes her chest hurt.

“It’s not the same. I—I hadn’t been conditioned in—in months, not since… not since Pierce, I think. They wiped me once or twice, but not—it wasn’t a full one, they didn’t take everything.” She takes a deep breath, forces herself to meet his eyes. “If I’d come straight from conditioning, when I went to kill you,” she says, “you’d be dead by now.”

He makes a noise of protest, but she shakes her head, pressing her metal palm against his chest.

“Steve, you have to believe me—I know what I—what I’m talking about. I came so close, that night, and I hadn’t been conditioned in—in—”

“Six months, if it was since Pierce died.”

“Yes, maybe. But—you don’t know what it’s like, the conditioning. It’s—they take away your mind, put in their own—their own _programs_ … it’s not a thing you can resist. Or at least,” she amends, ashamed, “I can’t.”

“If you can’t, then nobody could,” he says firmly. “Beck, it wasn’t your fault, alright? You resisted, you fought back—”

“But the words,” she says, clinging to him. “The words—they’re still in my head, and if—and if—”

“Okay,” he says. “Well, we’ll just have to… get them out, won’t we? One way or another.”

“You can’t. And I’m—I’m putting you in danger, I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t be here, I could get you killed, or—”

“Beck, no. Look at me.”

She does, unwillingly, and sees that familiar look of stubborn determination on his face.

“Beck. You’re not going anywhere, alright? Whatever danger you’re in, we’re in this together. And we’ll figure it out. Together. Okay?”

She opens her mouth to argue, but Steve holds up a hand to stop her.

“I know you don’t trust my friends,” he says. “And it’s still up to you, what we do. But Bruce is a doctor, and Tony’s a genius, and they both have—a lot of resources, research, contacts. And Natasha and Clint have—they’ve both got experience with brainwashing, with recovering. I really—I really think they could help you.”

“I don’t… I can’t…”

“It’s alright,” he says, cradling her close to his chest. “You don’t have to decide right now. But there’s help for you, Beck. All you have to do is ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems Steve and Beck read are III and X from Stephen Crane's collection "The Black Riders and Other Lines. The title of this chapter, of course, comes from poem III.
> 
> Content warning: Beck removes the tampons from Steve's nose.


	4. There's Always Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call.

_I really don’t know what I love you means_

_I think it means don’t leave me here alone._

_\-- "Dark Sonnet", by Neil Gaiman_

 

The next day, Beck wakes up knowing who she is. There’s a tight feeling in her chest that feels like fear, but also like determination; somewhere during the long hours of darkness, she’s made her decision.

She waits until after breakfast before handing Steve his phone. He takes it, looking up with a question in his eyes.

“Call,” she says, swallowing. “Call him. Ask—I need help.”

His face breaks into a smile. “Okay, Beck. Okay.”

 

The phone rings once before it’s picked up.

“He’s in the middle of something that’s got a fifty-percent chance of exploding,” says a woman’s voice. “You’ll have to make do with me.”

Steve lets out a breath. “Natasha.”

Her tone sharpens. “Steve? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine—better than fine, actually—Natasha—” He glances over at Beck, his face glowing. “I found her.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I found her,” he repeats. “She’s safe.”

“God damn it, Tony! TONY! Get your ass over here.”

There’s a commotion on the other end, then Stark’s voice.

“What’s going on? Why—ow—what’s that for?”

“You could have told me!”

“Told you what?”

“That he—you didn’t tell him?” she demands. “Steve, did you—”

“Of course I didn’t tell him,” says Steve. “He’d have gone ballistic.”

“Told me what?” Stark says.

There’s a long-suffering sigh from Natasha. “Rebecca Barnes turns out not to be dead, but she was brainwashed, and he’s been looking for her, and now he’s found her.”

“Brainwashed?”

“Look, the important thing is,” Steve begins, but Natasha cuts him off.

“She was kidnapped. By HYDRA.”

There’s a long silence, and then Stark says, in a strangled voice, “Steve, please tell me your girlfriend is not the Winter Soldier.”

“She’s not—”

“Oh, good.”

“My girlfriend. Exactly. Well, unless she—”

“Goddamn it, Steve!”

“Tony, listen—”

“Your girlfriend is the deadliest assassin in the world—”

“Hey, watch it,” says Natasha. “I’m very competitive, you know—”

“And you just—you _stole her from HYDRA?_ ”

“She came with me of her own free will,” Steve begins, but Beck grabs the phone from him.

“He rescued me,” she says, and the other end goes dead silent. “Steve rescued me. And I… I know I’ve… I’ve done bad things. Really bad things. But I—I don’t want to go back to them. To HYDRA. And Steve… he said you could help.”

She clears her throat; this is so much harder than she thought it would be. “Please,” she says softly. “Please help me.”

There’s a long silence. When Stark speaks again, his voice has a manic tinge to it.

“Well,” he says, “I never could turn down a lady in distress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from "Lean On Me" by Bill Withers. Seemed appropriate for these two.


	5. Epilogue: One Day Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for now! This may turn into a series later... we'll see.

 

_It matters not how strait the gate,_

_How charged with punishments the scroll,_

_I am the master of my fate,_

_I am the captain of my soul._

_\-- "Invictus", by William Ernest Henley_

“You’re sure about this?” Steve asks for the hundredth time.

They’re standing outside a run-down gas station, wearing more thrift-store clothes and backpacks. He’s dyed his hair brown, and hers auburn, and she’s got a cup full of pennies that she rattles at passersby, asking for spare change. The manager will probably be out to chase them away soon—Steve’s standing directly in front of a “No Loitering” sign—but they don’t need to be here long.

“You trust them, right?” she responds.

He lets out a breath, cloudy in the frosty air. “I do.”

“Then yes. I’m sure.”

“Okay. Good.” He smiles at her, eyes crinkling around the edges; she remembers that inside that timeless body, he’s actually thirty-three years old. “I’m proud of you, Beck.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she just leans into him, watching the headlights on the nearby highway.

A car pulls into the parking lot, a beat-up Volvo with bumper stickers saying things like “Make Love, Not War” and “You Can’t Eat Money”. They watch as a woman climbs out, her hair dyed an impossible shade of red, and Beck immediately stiffens—she has the grace of a dancer, but the precise movements are those of a fighter, a soldier.

Beside her, Steve murmurs, “It’s okay. Just wait.”

The woman approaches them, and smiles sympathetically. Her voice is familiar, but she’s got a heavy Boston accent.

“Pretty cold out here, huh? Can I buy you a coffee, or something?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” says Steve earnestly. “We appreciate it.”

“No problem,” she says. “Back in a jiffy.”

She comes out again with three coffee cups in a tray, and a plastic bag through which Beck can see a bottle of soda, a bag of chips, and a newspaper.

“You two got someplace to go?” she asks, handing two of the coffees to them. “A shelter, or something?”

Steve sighs, theatrical. “We’re trying to get to my sister’s in Stamford, but—”

“We couldn’t afford the train ticket,” Beck supplies. “We’re still trying to pay off our last apartment.”

The woman shakes her head. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? I keep saying, if we’d just move to a socialist system… well, you don’t want to hear about that.” She hesitates. “I’m actually going that way, myself—I could take you as far as New Rochelle, if you want.”

Steve looks overcome; for a guy who’s so bad at lying, he can certainly act. “That would be—that would be wonderful, ma’am. Only—if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble—”

“No trouble at all,” says the woman. “I mean, what goes around comes around, you feel me?”

“Yes,” Steve tells her. “Yes, exactly.”

“Well, then. Come on.”

They follow her to the car, Steve taking the front passenger seat, Beck in the back; they don’t discuss it, but from here she has the tactical advantage. She can keep track of everyone inside _and_ outside the car.

The woman starts the engine, pulls out of the parking lot, and glances in the rearview mirror.

“So,” she says, all traces of Boston gone from her accent. “You’re Steve’s brainwashed assassin girlfriend, huh?”

“Natasha—” Steve starts, but Beck just smiles, showing her teeth.

“Yes,” she says. “I am.”

 


End file.
